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The gem is goneâ&#x20AC;Ś

Even though we did not feel it climb out of our hand. We stare down at our empty palm and look to the ground, wondering whether it could have fallen, wondering whether we must dig again. The voices come not from the ground this time, but the sky. They tell us to look up. We trace the outline of a raw secret, floating faint against the sky, but peering closer we cannot tell whether it is here or not Here. Small bursts of light shift over the form like lightning currents. We dare to reach our right arm up towards it, to touch it, to see whether it is real. A spark catches our index finger and the world turns Black.

III: TRANSCEND verb : 1. to be or go beyond the range of limits 2. to rise above 3. to surpass

60 seconds by Tito Mogaji-Williams

‘take 2’ by Ella Lebeau ‘diptych’ by Paul Majek-Oduyoye CROSS THE LINE BY Danique Bailey More Than Meets the Eye By Aisha Rimi ‘Riverland’ by Theophina Gabriel Green Patches by rosa arthur shifting spaces by Kristen Bingle Fear and wonder By E.M. Ayovunefe

Editor-In-Chief’s Letter

2020 Heritage

2020 Academic Institutions

LIBERATION GROWING PAINS BY lalah-simone springer

‘the moon’ by Tosin akinkunmi

‘On the Stairs’ by Paul Majek-Oduyoye

OFFSPRING By Danai D.J. Denga

Fox / hound by Lalah-Simone Springer

RIGHT (/RĪT/) BY JAYLEN SIMONS

ONTENT

‘us lot’ by skai campbell

The Profitability of blackness By tracey mwaniki

‘aweng’ by ella alvis

Flash and yearn by Toya Oladinni

a new frame of mind by tamera Ama

‘Paper hearts’ by Enoch Chinweuba

lv [sic] pm by Jessica Fatoye

Reigniting cultural pride By Kaeshelle Rianne

‘tribal Masks’ by Kofi Iddrisu

Dancing Across Borders by By Danai D.J. Denga

Bird Calls by ide thompson

‘Heads in the clouds’ by ssuuna golooba-mutebi

Transcending neoliberalism by Jaydee seaforth

PHOTOGRAPHY SERIES BY THEO ANGUS

academic Sponsors

‘the sun’ by Tosin akinkunmi

Tarot to-do list by zoe thompson

‘everywhere the light touches’ By ebubechi okpalugo

Amma Asante’s ascent By Ajebowale Roberts

heritage of our contributors

Tamera Ama

Ajebowale Roberts

Theo Angus

Lalah-Simone Springer Rosa Arthur Theo Angus

Kofi Iddrisu

Theophina Gabriel Tosin Akinkunmi

Jaylen Simons

Danique Bailey Jaydee Seaforth

Ajebowale Roberts Danique Bailey Ella Alvis Ella Lebeau Jaydee Seaforth Kaeshelle Rianne Rosa Arthur Skai Campbell Tamera Ama Theo Angus Zoe Thompson

Tracey Mwaniki

Aisha Rimi Ajebowale Roberts E.M. Ayovunefe Ebubechi Okpalugo Enoch Chinweuba Jessica Fatoye Paul Majek-Oduyoye Tito Mogaji-Williams Tosin Akinkunmi Toye Oladinni

Kristen Bingle

Tamera Ama

Ella Alvis

Lalah-Simone Springer

Ide Thompson

Skai Campbell Ssuuna Golooba-Mutebi

Danai D.J. Denga

academic institutions of our contributors Balliol College, University of Oxford City, University of London Corpus Christi College, University of Oxford Goldsmiths, University of London King’s College London Magdalen College, University of Oxford Pembroke College, University of Oxford Regent’s Park College, University of Oxford Savannah College of Art & Design St Anne’s College, University of Oxford St John’s College, University of Oxford The Queen’s College, University of Oxford University College London University of Bath University of Birmingham University of Bristol University of Glasgow University of Kent University of Liverpool University of Manitoba University of Nottingham University of Sussex University of The Bahamas University of Winchester Wadham College, University of Oxford

academic sponsors of this edition University of Oxford

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L I B E R A T I O N G R O W I N G PA I N S lalah-simone springer

Beware the insidious seduction of memory: Winding round the neck, Petrifying the face; An ivy chain, coiling Round the soft apricot pit Between collar bones Where breath and hope seep in. Sometimes you will wake in the night, Wailing sodden Fresh dream crusted In the corner of each eye; As you draw breath to howl Seeds take root, and with these shoots Life begins anew Sore as a broken window As the pale, raw flesh Of a knee skinned, You begin again. Roots lengthen into the abyss, Fat purple figs swell from heavy branches. Look forward. Look up. Take a bite.

Tosin akinkunmi ‘the moon’

Paul Majek-Oduyoye ‘On the Stairs’ ‘My paintings are about Black figures and dark spaces. The intention for my paintings was to evoke emotion which was done through the colours I used and my subject matter of old family archives. I normally use different hues of blue within these pieces – there is a spiritual quality to my painting as I feel this colour puts me in that sort of mindset and mood. I hope this also resonates with the viewer. For the figures, I focused on skin tones. I wanted the figures to be very dark within the space, almost like you couldn’t really see them. I wanted to create a feeling of transparency, hence why I didn’t paint the blue fully in my paintings. I alternatively used charcoal to layer on top of the blue to add a further level of transparency.’

Offspring

By Danai D.J. Denga

‘I am my father’s son. I cannot claim what I do not love.’ — Joshua Bennett September, hollow as a conch, bore its knuckles; summer farewells tasted like cream and rust sizzled on the tongue and we were kin to witch-women, wailing in corners uninvited ----- present at the Strange Man’s funeral. Age ten under roofless sky, I learnt the hymns of ghosts, to saddle Death on tender shoulders, embalm him in an unsteady womb. Some memories are heavy as a Kodak: my limp and lifeless father, women drooped like jacarandas, shadows inching endlessly towards his grave, head wraps tinted with sorrow by the autumn sun. September remains unmoved. I mistake for an elegy, the touch of a lover, kisses open as cul de sacs. I am a shapeshifter, part owner of blood I am ashamed to call my own. When passion encloses me like a casket, calm and unforgiving, teach me to stay for the unloveable, including myself. For while I am my father’s daughter, I cannot claim what I never loved.

Fox

/Hound By lalah-simone springer

alty and warm, the taste of rust fills his mouth. He laps the blood, each pump from the animal’s faltering heart causing his tongue to twitch with anticipation. With one final twist, he breaks the squirrel’s neck. Satisfaction. The cars lining the street shimmer in the dark November night. His quarry is his alone.

The beast pads silently into shadows until only the echo of his deep, wolfish pant remains. The sound reverberates around the cul-de-sac. It shivers across the rickety wires breaking up the gardens and shudders through a window left ajar, to settle on Alex’s pillow. His eyes snap open as the sound runs through his ear drums and down his spine. Suddenly awake, he shrugs off his bobbly grey duvet and gasps for air. He pads across the carpeted floor, dodging mud-splattered Adidas trainers, crumpled pairs of jersey boxers, vests worn thin with use. Settling at the window, he furtively lights a cigarette stolen from his mum’s handbag earlier that day. Being able to sleep would be a fucking start, he thinks, flicking ash onto the extension at the back of his mum’s house. The ash settles like glitter in the dark. Alex could never sleep on school nights. Adrenaline would course through his veins as soon as he closed his eyes; and without fail, a dream of a wild animal would come. Sometimes hunter, sometimes hunted—always life or death. The dreams exhilarated and horrified him; he awoke tired, as if he’d been running through the streets all night. After a dream like that, he knew he’d turn up at school half-dead from exhaustion, slumped over his shitty, wobbly, plastic desk, sullenly scratching meaningless symbols into the chipped lacquer surface, secure in a world of white noise. The tiredness just made school—which was already terrible— something far worse. On those days, words to be spoken aloud were swallowed instead, pushed through the gut, and digested into fuel for further self-hatred.

By the time the teacher split them into groups for a session of glorified colouring-in, Alex was in a silence so near comatose that words barely held meaning.

Corinne knows the people sitting closest to her. She knows the people sitting closest to her because without fail, she rolls into class with her crew. She rolls into class with her crew because she enjoys the sound of them chatting shit in the background while she updates her Snap. She enjoys the group poses they stop to pull together; crouched, fingers pointing in single Vs in front of their eyes or noses, tongues lolling, teeth gleaming, or not, depending on mood. She enjoys the way that when she adjusts herself, or leans in, their conversations cease and they lean in too, ready to support whatever she has to say. Everyone knows which seats belong to Corinne and her crew—it’s the same in every lesson. As they entered the classroom today, however, some hunched-over weirdo was intently engraving pictures of dogs into the wrong desk— Corinne’s desk. She nestles into the seat next to it, shooting a side-eye at Alex for preventing her from passing notes to her faves. The corners of her bright smile twist downwards, as if she’s tasted something bitter. Her crew swivel in their seats, assessing the turn of her mouth. They know this means Corinne is out for blood. She laughs, ‘I’m confused, like, is this what a Black dyke looks like? Or what is this?’ She points to his arm hair, recieving nudges and shocked laughs from her audience. Puberty had caused the black, fine hairs on Alex’s arms to thicken, lately. He felt it move when it caught the breeze, and the feeling exhilarated him. At Corinne’s comment, he could feel the hairs start to arch on their follicular levels. Each individual strand could feel the shift in tone, the eyes of the pack watching him, waiting. His heart starts to pound as he clasps his forearms together beneath the table. The bitten stubs of his fingernails dig into his arms as he ventures up a glance: Corinne’s contempt forces his gaze back down, along with both corners of his full lips. ‘Wow, nothing,’ Corinne says with a faux-concerned furrow of her well-defined boybrows. ‘Hello?! Is it deaf?’ Alex dreams himself feral—a black hood of fur unfurling across his face, a snarl in his teeth, eyes pinched in anticipation of both giving and receiving pain. Alex dreams himself less afraid to respond to violence with more than silence. Pressure builds in his ears, a high-pitched whistle like the boiling of Auntie Shirley’s old kettle—an internalised scream. The familiar heat of shame ripples his flushed face. ‘She’s literally just gone red, what the fuck,’ Corinne scoffs, flicking her long black braids as she turns her chair away from him, turns the conversation away from him, takes him out of the spotlight. Her voice is loud enough to prompt the teacher—hidden in plain sight behind a stack of unmarked essays—to look up from their iPhone to shout ‘all right everyone, settle down!’ Alex’s stare bores straight through the teacher’s head. His hands continue to encircle his forearms in protective ritual as his eyes drift shut. The teacher resumes their seat, wheels squeaking under the force of their desire to relax. They select another video for the class to watch. As the lights dim Jay and Corinne finally make eye contact over Alex’s bowed head. Jay tears the corner from his half-finished assignment. The triangle disappears between two softly parted lips and, taking aim, he begins to chew. In the projector’s half-light, Corinne’s eyes shine like icy moons. Her eyes say, Do it In rapid succession, Jay spits two wet wads of paper at Alex’s cheek. The hot, dark smell of iron fills Alex’s nostrils. He jolts from his desk with a roar, his chair falling back with a clatter. He stamps over to Corinne, scattering school bags across the floor in the process. Alex leans in close to her warm, perfumed cheek, and with all the sincerity only a teenager could summon, chokes out the words: ‘I hope you get cancer… and die.’ A moment of silence, and then uproar crashes over the room – the teacher trying in vain to quell their voices. Cries of ‘Gassed!’, ‘She told you!’ and ‘Girl fiiiiight!’ bring the chaos to a swell as Alex stands panting, openmouthed under a myriad of blinking iPhone cameras. He bolts.

Bounding out of the ‘Teachers Only’ exit to the car park, a bite of the November air slaps Alex wide awake. He looks around for a CCTV camera and finds one angled to protect the teachers’ cars from vandalism or theft. He shrugs his hood over his head, obscuring his furrowed brow, and walks into the street. He’s furious. He’s furious at himself for losing control and showing so clearly that they got to him; for making a scene, embarrassing himself; for giving them something new, something other than his himness, to laugh about. Why am I even trying? Even the teacher still calls me she! How am I supposed to... What’s the fucking point? Alex crouches at the curb, his kicks lightly grazing the block of stone by his heels. He removes his school tie with one hand, and screws it up as he stuffs it into his black Reebok backpack. He breathes in. Standing, he turns and kicks the tyre of the car closest to him, again and again. With each kick the pain shudders through his big toe, his shin, knee, and every jolt leaves his mind calmer. Unfocused eyes suddenly become clear. Feds. Sitting in their car at the junction on the corner. Looking right at him. Alex turns quickly, aware of his nascent Black boyhood settling around his neck like a noose. He pulls his hood further over his face, turning to walk home. The bars of the school’s dark red fence flicker past his eye as he picks up speed. His trainers rest impatiently on the A and I of WAIT painted in yellow at the crossing as he flicks his eyes back, just enough to see that the police car has rolled to a stop behind him. He looks through the tinted windscreen. Catching the eye of the policeman in the passenger seat, he makes another impulsive decision. He pitches himself into the road, slipping between a white Transit van and an old blue Ford. A long honk of the horn makes drivers’ consternation plain, but to Alex the sound fades quickly as he slaloms between the crossing island’s metal fences. The traffic lights turn to the sound of slow revving engines. Alex steals a glance at the police car behind him, to confirm what he already knows. They’re tailing him, but it’s all downhill from here. Picking up speed, Alex runs past the newsagent and the mechanics on the corner. His feet pound the pavement past the Turkish barbers and the houses that flank it. His breath catches in his throat as he runs past the 174 bus stop and the disapproval of the pensioners therein. Each shallow breath inward catches in his throat, compressed by the binder he wears to feel safe in his body. Alex’s ribs grind together, and for a split second the afternoon sky flickers with starlight. Home, he thinks. Get home. Abruptly, he turns the corner from Oxlow Lane onto Hunters Hall Road. The sky widens above his head between the roofs of the cartoonish two-up two-down houses. He stops to catch his breath as this road is pedestrianised—if the police really want him, they’ll have to get out of the car or walk around. Relief drenches his body like rain as he takes the time to shake out his legs, shift his binder back into a more comfortable position, and remember how to walk. Alex turns back into his cul-de-sac, head down to avoid being spotted by the neighbours, who would definitely tell his mum that he got home from school early. His jaw tightens with annoyance. Why are they always watching me? he thinks, impassioned, outraged. Why can’t I just…exist? He swings his backpack around, angrily rifling with one hand for his house keys among scraps of paper, burst biros and Starburst wrappers. Footsteps pound towards him, paired with sharp exhalations of breath as clear as a siren. The policemen from the car: they’d come after him. ‘Oi, son!’ the red-faced policeman pants. ‘Son! We wanna talk to you.’ He stops running to lean forward,

hands on his knees in an attempt to regain both breath and dignity. Alex turns slowly, scowling, one hand still inside his backpack. The second policeman, the driver, careers around the corner and settles into a slow jog by his partner’s side. They fold their arms in unison. The red-faced policeman begins: ‘Right, now son—’ ‘I am not your son,’ Alex spits back. ‘Okay, okay, take it easy,’ the policeman takes a step forward. ‘We saw you out of school, kicking a car— that’s vandalism! You can’t go around kicking people’s cars.’ Alex turns sharply to face them. The unfairness of it swells in his chest, hot, and tight, and wrong. He makes a step towards them, one hand scrambling for keys in his bag. Seizing them sharply, he jabs them through the bag towards the cops. A threat. The policemen cock their heads imperceptibly, making eye contact. The second one watches, with his hand on his walkie talkie. ‘I don’t think you want to do that, son.’ Alex blanches, lips pressed together. His chin trembles, eyes wide, as the arm inside the backpack slackens for a second. The smug curl of the policeman’s mouth is enough to push Alex through melancholy into rage. He puffs up, a cat making itself larger in the face of a predator when it’s about to become prey. Clouds shift purposefully across the path of the sun, giving the afternoon light a musty, steel grey tint. Alex pulls out his keys in one rough movement, feeling his voice deepen into his gut before bursting from his mouth: ‘I said, back up! I’m serious.’ ‘What’s in the bag?’ the policeman replies, stepping forward, one hand outstretched, the other gripping his truncheon. ‘Hand it over.’ His partner pulls the walkie-talkie up to his mouth, averting his eyes from the escalating scene as he mumbles, ‘Aggressive young Black male…’ Alex’s eyes flick back and forth from the hedge hemming him in on his left, to the Vauxhall Corsa pinning him on his right. No escape. Net curtains twitch, adjust and then fall still again. He takes a step backwards. The policeman responds quickly, grabbing Alex’s backpack with one hand, and releasing his truncheon with the other. Alex wrenches away, curling inward, protecting his privacy. He pulls his bag towards his chest, as tight to his skin as his binder, muscles clenching with fury as the first blow from the policeman’s truncheon meets his back. Air escapes him. A crescendo of constellations explode behind his clenched eyelids, or above him in the afternoon’s dim light—he can barely tell. Alex is flooded with an anger that he had scarcely believed possible up until that point. He feels it radiating down his arms, and where it travels, his follicles gape, popping. From each follicle, thick, coarse hairs begin to grow. Anger radiates from him in thick waves, dank with pheromones. He is on his back, as the truncheon strikes, over and over; one meets his cheekbone. He feels his facial structure quake, reform and reset. Alex reaches his hands up to cover his face, relaxing his grip on the bag. His hands explore, finding his nose elongated and thick with hair. He opens his mouth to scream and finds himself voiceless but newly armed with sharp, canine teeth. The policeman seizes the pack triumphantly, tossing it to his colleague and standing to retrieve his cuffs. He is unaware of the miracle unfolding before him. There is a lull, a moment between moments—the pause between the intake of breath and its release. Alex’s eyes focus on the rope-like tendon jutting from the policeman’s turned neck. He pounces, contorting his body upright in one movement, claws extended—going for the jugular. Teeth meet skin, meet flesh, meet bone. Eyes roll back in pleasure and in pain. Blood soaks his tongue like water crashing onto the rocks below a waterfall—a dream from another life. As his mouth fills with blood, the outside world shrinks away to a hum. He pulls back, allowing the policeman to crumple to the ground—close to lifeless, with the remainder pooling at the curbside. Sirens approach; Alex turns away. His tail dusts the sole of the policeman’s shoe as his paws press resolutely into the tarmac.

heo

ngus

‘U s O r T hey’

T heo A ngus

‘M y B rother’s K eeper’

T heo A ngus

‘P lease P ick U p’

Tr A

unty Audre told us in 1984 that ‘the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house’. Yet nearly four decades on, here we are, still sifting through the toolbox. Still unaware that they created the hammers we throw to break down their doors. Still expecting to beat them at their own game, the one they have been playing (and winning) for centuries. When thinking about what it means to move beyond, to outgrow and rise above the status quo, what comes to mind is the need for us all to collectively break with neoliberalism, to sever ties with its poison principles. To read Aunty Audre’s words and truly grasp the

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extensive toolset the masters have means recognising that warriors like her have already forged an opposing set of tools. Their works are like instruction manuals; we need only read, and apply. For oppressed people, looking back serves a wealth of purpose. Nothing is new, everything happening now has occurred before in a similar way. To be capable of breaking these patterns we must first understand them. Before assessing the consequences of neoliberalism, let us first reflect on the conditions of its inception. Britain, and more specifically, Thatcher decided to take an ‘every man for themselves’ approach to governing, both fiscally and socially. A stance that, unlike the money the rich saved on taxes, actually trickled down to the rest of us, thus causing an increase in selfishness and inequality. Prior to this, there had been a communal effort in countries across the world to kick the colonisers out.

The exact moment that Great Britain was demoted from empire to her natural state as a tiny island with a God complex and more influence than empathy is contested. However, historians tend to focus on the decolonisation efforts in Africa and the West Indies in the late 1950s and up to the early 1980s as the starting point of the postcolonial era. The term ‘postcolonial’ is incredibly loaded. It’s a misnomer, the people living now don’t and have never lived in an era void of colonialism or colonial subjects. In Britain, we needn’t look

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further than Scotland and its continuing struggle for independence. Also considering the other ‘territories’ Britain still has sovereignty over, whether in the name of ‘colonies’ or ‘British dependent territories’ (later branded ‘British overseas territories’), the colonial grip lingers. For those living in former colonies or as descendants of former colonial subjects elsewhere, there is nothing ‘post’ about colonialism. The British may have removed their boots from our lands and their ships from our shores but the footprints from those boots remain firmly lodged in our collective psyche. The fog from those long sailed ships thickens in our throats every time we open our mouths to speak colonial tongues.

and the 1980s, Britain was scrambling to hold on to its former ‘greatness’. Before Thatcher, Conservative prime ministers were well aware the tides were turning (and not in their favour) thanks to the tireless, selfless, and most importantly, collective acts of colonised peoples. Uprisings, strikes, and protests simmered both abroad and on Britain’s doorsteps in the shape of labour

I use ‘we’ in this essay to refer interchangeably to all oppressed peoples. We as Black people, we as women, we as a part of the LGBTQ+ community, we as disabled people, we as descendants of colonised peoples, we as the poor, the depressed, and the fed up. I use ‘we’ because they want us to focus on ‘I’; our differences are important but what connects us is essential. Both postcolonialism and neoliberalism are rooted in individualism and abandonment by the state. However, the thread that holds them together is entirely more sinister. Between the 1950s

unions, and groups of tired Black mothers and sisters armed only with an agenda. They then used this demand for agency to make us believe that individualism, competition, and free markets are what would free us. It was at the height of Thatcher’s tenure as prime minister that well established grassroots organisations started to disband. Neoliberalism also advanced in the US under the Reagan administration. It is no coincidence that OWAAD (Organisation of Women of African and Asian Descent) and the Black Panther Party were both dissolved in 1982. Individualism breeds competition,

‘The British may have removed their boots from our lands and their ships from our shores but the footprints from those boots remain firmly lodged in our collective psyche.’

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which in turn breeds paranoia. It must have become increasingly difficult for organisations that relied on people placing the collective over the needs of individuals to operate in a time where comrades were turning to competition. Neoliberalism gave us something to lose because it made us believe we could have it all to gain. Why would someone from ‘rise & grind’ Twitter condemn billionaires when they think there’s a possibility that if they were to work hard enough they could become one?

pubs and restaurants are still open in the middle of a pandemic but libraries remain closed: they add little to the economy. It’s why Boris can pretend to care about our civil liberties whilst not enforcing an effective nation-wide lockdown and why he told us verbatim that ‘we will lose loved ones before their time.’ When Rishi Sunak was misquoted saying that struggling artists should retrain to find other work, this was an example of neoliberalism in action. Under a neoliberal regime, the bottom line is just that. We are seen as nothing more than replaceable cogs in the wider machine of capitalism. Our main objective being to keep the wheel turning, the government would much rather provide a careers test than offer any real aid to artists. When the survival of the economy is put before that of the citizens, all responsibility is placed on the individual to claw themselves out of a situation their negligent government created. This can be seen most recently in the vote against directly funding free school meals over the school holidays. Conservative MP Danny Kruger wrote ‘... generous, unconditional, universal benefit entitlements trap people in dependency on the state.’ The government has made it clear that we are on our own.

Whether we like it or not neoliberalism has us all in a chokehold. It’s the reason why

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However, this ‘pull yourself up by the bootstraps’ mentality isn’t shared amongst Westminster elites alone. How is it possible

c en di that more than 17,000 people have died because they were unable to claim benefits? And yet, people find fault with the claimants and not with universal credit itself. Beneath heartbreaking stories, comment sections are dominated by hostility. A mother sheds light on how rising food costs are becoming unbearable and without fail you will find an army of English Jack avi wielding Brits explaining how to get a weekly shop done for three quid. ‘You too can survive on foraged fruits and cucumber meal plans’, they say. No one should be surviving on foraged fruits and cucumbers; every family in the UK should have access to balanced meals, housing that’s affordable, and free school uniforms for their children. ‘Communist!’, they cry. In the words of The Streets, ‘dry your eyes mate’. There was a time in Britain when all of this more or less existed. I couldn’t believe it when my mum told me about life growing up in Sheffield in the 1970s. There was a warehouse where those who were less fortunate could pick up their school uniforms for free! Neoliberalism as an ideology may have gained prominence during Thatcher’s tenure but unfortunately, it did not die with her. Thatcher is hailed as the empress of British neoliberalism due to her constant battle with unions and privatisation of practically everything bar her own mother. But we are feeling the effects of

‘Why would someone from ‘rise & grind’ Twitter condemn billionaires when they think there’s a possibility that if they were to work hard enough they could become one?’ neoliberalism, now more than ever. During Thatcher’s efforts to divide our communities we were at least aware of who the enemy was. Then Blair came along with his merry band of champagne socialists, and we became complacent. Grassroots activism was displaced by subsidised government jobs, meaning some found themselves behind desks, working in the same institutions they fought (and still fight) against. New Labour’s amalgamation of socialist principles such as equal opportunity and their neoliberal stances of economic determinism, simply further entrenched a value system that centred personal agency. Though markedly less aggressive than Thatcher in application, Blairite policies including those which

o i b ra l i sm l e

‘Instead of directing our rage upwards, we’ve been spilling it horizontally. We have been saving useful energy to propel us vertically when we should be using it across, to support one another.’ granted independence to the Bank of England, the introduction of tuition fees for higher education and the introduction of academies were all rooted in neoliberalism. Citizens were to become consumers and the marketisation of education happened faster than one could say ‘league table’. Having once called Blair ‘formidable’ in praise of his emphasis on enterprise, I imagine Maggie was proud. Even though it’s been over a decade since Blair was prime minister, the effects of his policies reverberate through parliament today. Keir Stamer, much unlike his namesake (the founder of the Labour party Keir Hardie), embodies the worst of Blair and Brown. Neoliberal ideology is not a single party issue. We must move beyond, outgrow, and rise above it. And we must do it together. When Aunty Audre said, ‘without community, there is no liberation’ she meant that. When I write that neoliberalism is a tool of the ruling class, I mean that too, for the same reasons. Neoliberalism brought with it, alongside child poverty, austerity and further destruction of the education system, the death of community. This is not in a hyperbolic sense but a very literal, symbolic and visceral passing away of communal ties. Instead of directing our rage upwards, we’ve been spilling it horizontally. We have been saving useful energy to propel us vertically when we should be using it across, to support one another. When thinking about my community, the Black community, I ask myself how we’ve managed to find the strength to push through the cyclical circus that Black people are subject to in Britain. As Aunty Audre reminds us, we find strength in our communities:

‘For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change. And this fact is only threatening to those women who still define the master’s house as their only source of support.’ For too long we have seen the master’s house as the only source of support: the government, mainstream media, the education system, social services or otherwise. Of course, people have been campaigning against our biased institutions and advocating for better representation. However, as Aunty Audre warns us, better representation only serves to beat them temporarily at their own game. As witnessed this summer in the media industry, during the height of the BLM protests, editors scrambled to find Black writers to share their experiences. But were those writers hired? Would they be commissioned if they pitched articles that didn’t centre the Black experience? All the Black MPs, CEOs and journalists (though welcomed) are of no consequence if they are unable to bring about genuine change within those institutions. Winter is coming folks and we are amid a global pandemic, a recession, and under a government that consistently prioritises profits over people. We are going to need to lean on each other now more than ever. As a society, we may be progressing technologically, but our humanity is stagnant. We have been conditioned into believing there’s nothing we can do about the state of our country. If the English parliamentarians thought this way in the 17th Century, Britain would still be a feudalist state (not that a capitalist one is much better). One of the greatest tools they crafted was fear, but history demonstrates that they are the ones who ought to be afraid. Though, they have little to fear if just a few of us stand alone. So, to move beyond neoliberalism together, we will need to work as a collective. This looks like showing up for each other, donating to food banks, checking on vulnerable neighbours and joining local activist groups. If you are fed up, get up.

‘These figures are breaking through the clouds of limitation, obstruction, and restriction to bask in the warm rays of the life-giving sun, shining with the light of a new day. Their nudity represents the nakedness we feel when trying to transcend our limitations — external and internal — in the pursuit of higher goals or unfamiliar endeavours; their expressions convey their inner emotional states as they embark on this physical and spiritual journey to a new horizon.’ - Ssuuna Golooba

Ssuuna Golooba-mutebi ‘Heads in the Clouds’

Bird Calls On High, I & I/ so high that

the song cleaved my syrinx intwo, slipping intwo that crystal crusted abeyance called sky/so high that

that the air in my bones turned to ice as I flew to touch the sun songing all the way/so high that

my tongue turned desert, flesh sifting through bone marking a hallowed chant, still, I went on blending my canto/so light that

The reaches turned blueblueblue awasht in silent sounds felt like a night-shadowed in peace/so quiet that

I & I touched the eternal anthem (re)sang the first refrain ancestor birds callin me out my body/so glad that

they make song to sing me back together, send me back on the first sound of dawn a lightsong/so fine that

my wings stretched to catch the weight of my own resplendence turning music to flesh, wind into bone breaking silence in reflection/so right that

the inner court of my lungs broke forth a strange resurrection a bird call raised in power /so mine that

I settled back to my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s aery taught my nestlings this ancient song spreading the gift of this old-birdsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; call /so high that

So that new birds could be born in love With less regret than us who came before, for them, I sing this air

By Ide Thompson

Dancing across Borders: Queer Love, Identities and Netflix Documentaries.

On the 29th of April 2020, Netflix released the LGBTQ+ documentary A Secret Love. Growing up in a religious home, I was trained to feign apathy or disdain at LGBTQ+ portrayals of love. So when I decided to watch A Secret Love I remember wanting to savour the intimacy of the moment and waiting to be home alone so I could watch it on the big screen. Within an hour and twenty minutes, I was left with silent tears on my face. Produced by Ryan Murphy, A Secret Love follows the lives of former baseball players Terry Donahue and Pat Henschel as they recollect over six decades of forbidden love and repressed desire. Despite sounding as cliché as any historical LGBTQ+ movie that predates the 90s, with themes including familial rejection, shame, and fear of violence, this regenerated plotline, in particular, serves an important purpose. It is as familiar as skin and dust. I recognised myself in it. The documentary shows us how Terry and Pat cleverly hid their feelings under the glove of a beautiful ‘friendship’. We see the women, both old and bent with age, now living in Chicago, and showing each other love in small ways. Pat offers Terry medicine, Terry puts Pat’s shoes on, and they both care for their niece, Diana, who they raised as a daughter. It is only in their old age that Terry and Pat came out to their families, declaring their love to mostly positive (albeit some negative) responses. Their story is as heartbreaking as it is liberating. As Pat and Terry discussed the lack of good choices in their decision to hide, I was astounded by how the past, present and future merged in my body. What felt like a distant danger for Pat and Terry in the 1960s remains only too real in the present day for Black, Southern-African girls. Homosexuality is criminalised in my home country; the country forged in memory as my first home. A part of me mourned Pat and Terry’s recollections of the numerous circumstances where they had to deny each other. When asked if they were lovers, Pat and Terry would vehemently swear against it, offering up the well-rehearsed lines of friendship and house shares. Yet, their poems and letters were haunting and their words were completely their own. They defied and declared their sanctimonious love in secret - creating a sacred reality that existed only for them. Fearing discovery, the two would routinely rip off the ends of each other’s letters, leaving themselves nameless. In one example, Pat writes:

In Elhillo’s poem ‘To Make Use of Water’, she professes this reality: ‘stupid girl, Atlantic got your tongue… do you even understand what was lost to bring you here?’ When the Zimbabwean ‘coup’ took place in 2017, I felt both the safety of my university lecture hall and the isolated terror of loved ones I could not reach in the tindered streets of Harare. For me, the idea of ‘home’ has two faces, two realities intersecting in the same body. The truth is, sometimes I never feel like I am entirely here or there. As I watched Pat and Terry cross thresholds and declare their love in front of friends and family, I was reminded of the first woman I ever loved. I thought of our last conversation smuggled through WhatsApp and how she recounted escaping the husband her family had pressured her into marrying. When she returned home after experiencing depressive periods they sent her back. In my culture, it is common to perceive a woman without a man as incomplete. My first love recounted her final escape to me and how she now lives with her ‘best friend’, who is really her paramour. As I watched A Secret Love, I remembered how we had also been ‘best friends’: too young to hide it well, and too sheltered to realise the danger of its implications. This was a danger I marginally escaped, and one she still navigates daily. This Netflix documentary is a beautiful and painful triumph of a love story as it allows us to see Pat and Terry make it to a ‘better time’. However, this ‘better time’ although evident, remains intangibly in the future for many of us: us who are Black and bordered; us who are immigrants and queer; us who are LGBTQ+ and working class. The story’s powerful conclusion can serve as a much-needed salve or as a painful reminder of the presence of the wound itself. Watching this documentary reminded me of how far we have come, and yet, how our ‘better times’ will not arrive until everyone else can love freely too. Living in the UK means that I can marry who I want and have the privilege of a passport that allows me to relocate if I need to. However, this does not mean security because loss is not only physical; it is also social and cultural. My ‘better time’ will not arrive until the first woman I loved will no longer be forced to hide under the label of ‘housemate’ or ‘best friend’. My ‘better time’ will not come until everyone like us can live free from the fear of losing ourselves, our families, and the cultures we are part of. Our ‘better times’ are held hostage by colonial legacies that have warped the narrative, placing shame on queer bodies that love without limitation.

It was one night I shall remember, one more night to call our own.’

During A Secret Love, I encountered my past, present, and future selves in a way that surpassed the limitations of the documentary itself. While I am Black and African, Pat and Terry are American and white, and so our experiences will never be entirely the same. However, like Pat and Terry, I celebrate the agency of subverting legal and de facto restrictions on queer bodies and recovering samples of joy that have always been valid. Kissing the mouth of another woman or man is worship, ceremony, and sanctification. For many Africans living a post-colonial reality, tearing the names off the end of a letter is still an act of both resistance and victory, despite the hidden measure. Every day that we decolonise the meaning of family and love, we are creators of our own reimagined universes. I remain hopeful for all our better times that are yet to come. For now, we fight, but we must dance too. We must dance across their borders.

This film held multiple meanings for me and brought me to tears. I am a ‘bordered kid’ : this is how I describe spending my formative years in an equal split between two African countries and the UK. For me and those like me, being bordered kids can sometimes feel like our own special form of double consciousness; a multi-lens through which we view ourselves and the world. An example of this can be found in an array of Safia Elhillo or Emi Mahmoud’s poetry.

By Danai D.J. Denga

‘...it was one more night of heaven. On we sauntered, seldom speaking as we passed through Moonlight Lane. Happiness walked there inside me when you smiled and called my name….

Reigniting cultural pride: in conversation with Caribbean links

Kaeshelle Rianne, History and Politics Editor, spoke with Caribbean Links about creating meaningful connections between Caribbeans in the diaspora and those at home.

rom as early as the 15th century, more than 28 island nations scattered throughout the Caribbean sea were divided up among colonial nations from Europe. Despite this interference, rich and distinct cultural traditions have managed to not only survive but flourish in the Caribbean. Around the world, the sounds of reggae, soca, and zouk and the taste of fried dumplings (or bakes), curry goat, and hard food have travelled with Caribbeans wherever they go. The thousands of Caribbean nationals and descendants living in the UK make up the diaspora: the bridge between the islands and Britain. Our conversations about what it means to be Caribbean are often dominated by stories of Jamaica due to it being one of the larger islands and its historical colonial ties to Britain. The arrival of the Windrush generation (the Jamaicans who docked in Tilbury en masse) only served to entrench this further. In the UK, we often refer to the Caribbean as The West Indies, but it’s a misnomer and tends to describe the anglophone islands or those representing the cricket team. After European traveller Christopher Columbus arrived in The Bahamas, the term ‘West Indies’ arose to distinguish the region from India where he had planned to arrive. Afia Nicholas is a legal advisor and the founder of Caribbean Links. Feeling an absence of representation at events aimed at young people, she was inspired to create Caribbean Links. She explained, ‘I wouldn’t really see my own culture so much represented...I wouldn’t necessarily see the portrayal of being Caribbean as one I have grown up seeing. Even the other events that were specifically Caribbean would be more for the events, which were great. I would always learn a lot, but I was thinking to myself, ‘What is there for everyone with a focus on Caribbean young people?’

Stacey Bryan is a gynaecologist who specialises in women’s health. She is also co-chair of the British Caribbean Doctors and Dentists’ Network (BCDN). For Stacey, who is of Jamaican and St. Vincentian heritage, joining Caribbean Links was a ‘no brainer’. She has since become a core member of the team. ‘Caribbean Links is about transcending the ideas of what it means to have popular ideas or stereotypical ideas of what it means to be Caribbean. It’s about us transcending beyond those ideas and lifting the veil over those ideas and really peeking into what our culture really means. As UK-based Caribbeans, we may have questions about identity and culture that those who’ve grown up in Caribbean countries may not have. So for me, it’s about just simply rising above and beyond to meet ourselves and just learning more about who we are.’ Caribbean Links shares knowledge about the islands through events, panel discussions, and a celebration of culture among those from the diaspora. The group welcomes everyone who is interested to participate, but primarily centres Caribbean millennials. Afia spoke excitedly about the team behind the group, ‘each person brings their own unique attributes and their own flavour’, she said. After asking around at a networking event and reaching out online, Stacey, Isaac and Marcia joined the team and helped to define the objectives of the group. ‘Fundamentally, it’s about learning more about who we are and where we come from and to have fun whilst doing it’, said Afia. Caribbean Links has since been organising conversations about the different aspects of being Caribbean, from languages, geography, history to spirituality and everything in between. Like many of us, Afia’s understanding of Caribbean culture is shaped by her upbringing and being surrounded by her family. For me, this means my grandad’s obsession with watching the West Indies play cricket, uncles and aunties swaying to reggae and lovers rock at hall parties or saying grace around the table with my cousins before (somewhat reluctantly) tucking into corned beef and rice. Afia also doesn’t believe that portrayals of Caribbeans in the media are often as ‘accurate’ as they could be. With the recent depiction of Jamaicans in the BBC Comedy show Famalam, I am more than inclined to agree. When my cousin who lives in Jamaica sent me a link to a clip of the segment and asked, ‘Tell me it isn’t real,’ I felt embarrassed and ashamed.

Throughout my life, people have made unpleasant jokes about Jamaicans, with Rastafarians bearing the brunt of such ridicule. They are stigmatised as lazy pot-heads and their dreadlocks refashioned as costumes for Halloween and other such occasions. I was deeply disappointed to see these stereotypes reproduced and laced with the hypersexualisation of blackness for the purposes of ‘adult comedy’. In some ways, this instance speaks to the crux of one of the problems Caribbean Links seeks to solve: Jamaica is but one island in the Caribbean and yet it still dominates, albeit poor, representations of Caribbean culture. As Stacey suggests, ‘It’s often ‘Either you’re African or you’re Jamaican.’ There are no other islands like Asia or the Caribbean. Jamaica. That’s it’. Many of the smaller islands in the Caribbean go unnoticed. Through Caribbean Links, Stacey has already started to connect the dots, regarding which traditions and stories come from where. ‘I’m guilty myself as well… I’m learning a lot about the Caribbean, things I didn’t even know existed,’ she admitted. Many people found out about Sint Maarten for the first time this year from a video wherein the Prime Minister, Silveria Jacobs, laid down the law regarding coronavirus with the unforgettable words ‘Stop moving…if you do not have the type of bread you like in your house, eat crackers’. Her demeanour gave off a distinct to-thepoint Caribbean attitude that I have seen countless times before in my relatives. I believe this connection is partly what made the video go viral, making its way across Mum’s WhatsApp. Caribbean Links is in its early days but ambitious and working well as a collective. ‘We’ve literally just started in April. And we had our first event in May… from then on, we’ve just flown. We have a really great thing going as a team, it’s just been great,’ Afia says. She spoke passionately about the in-person panel sessions and events she penned in a little notebook for Caribbean Links, but her plans were thwarted by the outbreak of COVID-19. She described the situation as ‘an enabling constraint’, adding that ‘something shouldn’t work out, [ just] because you’ve got less...it [can] actually end up being better. I definitely think that’s what happened with Caribbean Links…people are able to speak and share knowledge and create links in the comfort of their own homes’. In Britain, the whitewashing of history, the lack of funding for spaces catering to the requirements of different groups, and gentrification all contribute to the erasure of cultural hubs where these kinds of knowledge can be developed. For Caribbean Links, it is about more than just acquiring knowledge for knowledge’s sake. Stacey explained that knowing your history and background can help to establish a sense of self, which is important for children to ‘flourish and grow’, and essential for young adults. ‘I think there is perhaps an issue with Caribbean millennials growing up in the UK where we probably don’t really know that much about our cultures and

there’s a disconnect between Caribbean diasporans and Caribbeans who live in the Caribbean and have grown up there,’ said Afia. Caribbean Links serves to build cultural connections among young people that have been lost over the years.

Both Afia and Stacey are frustrated by the ‘serious lack of access’ to Caribbean history. ‘It’s only as I got older, in my 20s, that I started going to events that were specifically aimed towards learning about African and Caribbean history,’ explained Afia. She learned about these histories at events at the Black Cultural Archives, Black History tours, walks and other experiences with her family. She stated, ‘I didn’t know about Darcus Howe. I didn’t know about Una Marson. I didn’t know about these amazing people and parts of Black history. Now that I’m older, I’m learning more about these things and so I really hope that Caribbean Links can be that space for a lot of Caribbean young people, millennials as well as Gen Z’.

‘As UK-based Caribbeans, we may have questions about identity and culture that those who’ve grown up in Caribbean countries may not have. So for me, it’s about simply rising above and beyond to meet ourselves and just learning more about who we are.’ Stacey describes learning about the Caribbean and its histories from her mother and the general lack of accessible Caribbean history. She says, ‘I don’t know if it’s a case of there’s not enough out there or that we don’t know enough of what’s out there and how to access [it]...my mum was called a ‘pan-Africanist’. She’s really into history and put me in various groups when I was younger to do with learning our history.’ I agree. As books such as Black and British: A Forgotten History by David Olusoga or LOTE by Shola von Reinhold tell us, we often have to dig into the footnotes and read between the lines to find our stories. At the time, her mother’s keen interest was met with scepticism from her family members. ‘They looked at it like ‘Oh, you’re in that cult’ or ‘You just go on marches’, because they didn’t understand it, or they weren’t willing to learn themselves,’ she admitted. Stacey suggested that without exposure to this information by parents and close relatives, it’s rare to come across Caribbean history during one’s formative years. However, she believes new technology is

helping to share our stories more widely. There is no doubt that social media and other online platforms can be powerful ways to spread messages that are important to Black communities across the world. During the lockdown, this became particularly evident, from the resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement following police violence in the US to the End SARS movement in Nigeria. Through Instagram infographics, Zoom panel sessions, and TikTok activism (in this edition), the possibilities to empower communities and spread messages are endless. The digital world has some drawbacks, such as algorithmic bias, racist trolls, and the disparity between the types of devices and access people have to the internet. However, there remain many opportunities for us to carve out our own spaces online.

‘The Caribbean spirit generally is about hard work. There are many things, but one of the main things I’ve taken away from watching how hard my family works is determination and persistence. To me, that is the epitome of what it means to be Caribbean, that’s the Caribbean spirit.’

is determination and persistence. To me, that is the epitome of what it means to be Caribbean, that’s the Caribbean spirit.’ In Stacey’s words, ‘It’s about knowing your history to be stronger, to be wiser, and to be more confident’. In many ways, the group works towards ‘reigniting cultural pride’ through the exploration of the questions, stories, and ideas that are important to Caribbeans. While the idea of Caribbean culture often radiates a bright and colourful vibrancy, the remnants of colonialism persist. Socially, economically, and culturally, its foul odour lingers in the air. As a result, some of the conversations that Caribbean Links will have are going to encounter pain and distress. So far, there have been conversations about ‘Caribbeanness’, parenting, and the geopolitical histories that span across linguistic divisions; each time it is the community spirit that drives discussions forward to work through the trauma. What struck me about the recent event on ‘The Anglophone and Hispanophone Caribbean: Tensions in the Islands’ was hearing about our cross-cultural references that defied the colonial arrogance that sought to tear us apart. The Caribbean and its diaspora are entwined in a way that is complex but essential in giving us our raison d’être. As a collective, through our own knowledge-building, we can form communities and ensure that our stories are not forgotten. The next Caribbean Links events will be held in the new year. Visit their Instagram page for further details @caribbean_links_group.

As for Caribbean Links, Afia hopes it can be ‘a revival of Caribbean culture, hopefully in the UK and beyond,’ through providing young people with links between the islands and the diaspora. Cultural heritage is important to Afia and Stacey, especially in terms of how they understand their identity as British-born Caribbeans. Stacey beamed as she reeled off the adjectives, ‘resilience, happiness, fun, colour, expressive, discipline, support’ to describe Caribbean culture. ‘These are just words that just come to mind when I think of Caribbean culture and everything it means… we’re just a bunch of very happy people whichever Island you’re on,’ she added. Trying to find the right words to describe her Jamaican and Guyanese heritage, Afia said, ‘The Caribbean spirit generally is about hard work. There are many things, but one of the main things I’ve taken away from watching how hard my family works

By Kaeshelle Rianne

lv [sic] pm:

:translation

ur absnce hllwd thse wrds, gttd ld br.

your absence hollowed these words, gutted, laid bare.

mning spplntd by the spc btwn slncs. i thnk of hw we invntd lve, strng it tgthr l tt r by lttr vwls opnng to dd ends we crtd crng the sme chnts wth dffrnt endngs ors is ntrppd in the cgs we scrbe on ppr ech its own sgntre but none can master forgery. hw it echs hrdr, bts on th erdrm, rptres hms, srnds, whspr swt nthngs into my er and mke thm lder thn ar pnch the qt int sbmssn crve yr nme int the vd no defntn bt the shpe of tng agnst tth i rmnd my tnge hw it fls, lt it fnd ts wy bck to its mstr: Slnce, kpr of scrts.

meaning supplanted by the space between silences. i think of how we invented love, strung it together letter by letter vowels opening to dead ends we created crying the same chants with different endings ours is entrapped in the cages we scribe on paper each its own signature but none can master forgery. how it echoes harder, beats on the eardrum, ruptures, hums, serenades, whisper sweet nothings into my ear and make them louder than air punch the quiet into submission carve your name into the void. no definition but the shape of tongue against teeth i remind my tongue how it feels, let it find its way back to its master: Silence, the keeper of secrets. By Jessica Fatoye

‘Paper hearts’

Enoch Chinweuba

A New Frame of Mind: The Kinship of Art and Psychology TaMeRa AMA

Art and psychology aren’t subjects we often recognise as companions throughout compulsory education. However, they are two topics that would be incomplete without the other. The ability to understand and appreciate their relationship only strengthens our capacity to interpret the world and its inhabitants, regardless of whether we’re practising art and psychology individually or in conjunction with one another. I spoke to Judith Kusi, PhD and Johannil Napoleon, ART-BC, who are both artists and psychologists within their respective fields about how they’ve interpreted psychology through art and vice versa.

Judith Kusi is a British-born educational child psychologist and artist of West African and West Indian heritage. She quotes her years studying at university as a poignant time where art helped her to navigate her emotions and experiences. She explains that ‘when you’re studying there’s such an influx of new information, and you have to catch up with all [these] new language concepts.’ Drawing was a way for Judith to make sense of and hold onto the meaning of her new-found knowledge. I began by looking at how her practise has influenced her personally.

Judith, you’ve mentioned using art as a way to process Kegan’s Constructive Developmental Theory: ‘an adult development model that talks about movement reflecting how people are reacting to you in the moment and what you’re doing to cause that.’ So, how has art aided you in your own mental development regarding yourself and others around you, whether it’s inspired by theory or not? ‘I think occasionally if you are seen as a minority in the context that you’re in you can begin to think that you understand the minority experience of everyone. I just wanted to pick that apart. I began to think about how I can explore other peoples experiences without projecting my understanding of what that must be like. So every time I had an interaction with someone I would try to draw or paint to depict what I was understanding at the time. Then I would have a conversation with someone about what I’d created. This helped to develop my understanding of race, which is the concept I’m really focused on at the moment.’ Then when I’m feeling overwhelmed and begin to have that bubbling feeling of imposter syndrome, trusting myself to draw has been so important to me. In psychology it’s mostly language-based, you don’t get to jump into somebody’s mind and see how it made a difference. You often have a really brief involvement, so it’s nice to have art as this tangible thing that has a beginning, middle and end. The art piece may evolve which is fine, but it’s good to have

something that feels complete. It’s very grounding as there aren’t many endings in life.’

You discussed that as a conceptual artist you look at things that we just accept as fact and try to unpick it in order to challenge how we understand fact and reality. Hence the use of your overlapping figures in Coloured People Artwork that looks at how we can apply cognitive behavioural theory to the way we perceive people. How has this psychological thinking further translated into Coloured People Artworks? ‘All of the artworks are of human figures and in lockdown, I started creating shadow drawings using soft pastel. These pieces are more introspective, looking at the narrative I have in my mind about my own ability and self-efficacy. You wonder where these feelings about yourself and your ability to do things come from; whether they exist internally or externally and how you’ve come to know yourself as this person in the world. So again this artwork is composed of overlapping figures. It’s quite confusing to create so you have to trust your own perception as you go along. It’s only when you colour in the field and shapes at the end that you can see what’s actually there. It’s about trusting our initial perspective on something.’ Judith’s collection ‘Coloured People Artworks’ is partly inspired by the poem ‘And You Call Me Coloured.’ She mentions seeing the poem hanging on a wall at school. The poem questions the use of the word coloured for non-white people: ‘When I was born I was Black... When you were born you were pink…’ This sparked a sense of confidence in her to question things she thought were unfair.

‘The final established way of presenting Coloured People is a piece called ‘Fiction In The Space Between’, which is the one I feel most connected to. I would describe myself as a social constructivist because although we co-construct meaning between one another I think we still go away with our own understanding of said meaning. This piece is more of a social constructionist presentation. This presentation is also composed of overlapping figures but unlike the other pieces, this isn’t the image’s focus. It’s about the negative spaces between those figures. This painting is done in oil. I don’t know why that’s the case. I guess the first thing you think of when painting is oil paint and maybe that’s why— just a way of sharing how common it is. Just like race, oil exists in everything. I use oil to depict skin tone and place that in between the figures rather than colouring them in. This is to communicate that actually, we have lots of control over the concept of race that we’ve been given, told is real, and keep maintaining. In actuality, it’s very mutable and it’s very possible to take control of how you understand race in general, your own race, and how you react to others through conversation.’

Your Black Womanhood series takes us on an intimate journey that is also familiar to those who fit within that category. You’ve said the word ‘or’ has been used to punctuate a point in time of the artist reframing their identity. Can you describe one of these moments? ‘The first one was called Lazy OR Tired, which I did while I was writing my thesis. Doing that, being on placement, having your own life, friends and family—it’s a lot. Then there’s the comparison; I’d look around and people [on the course] would be at different stages and I’d think ‘how can I not keep up with this?’ That artwork is a combination of different theories that look at narrative psychology and the storied nature that we have about who we are and where that opinion comes from—is this something that’s been told to me and around me so much that I’ve internalised that I’m lazy and I need to work extra hard? So I put it [the canvas] on the wall and I started painting. I was really pleased with how the figure turned out and next to it I wrote Lazy OR Tired? I had this moment when I was creating it where I thought ‘I’ve got to stop doing this to myself. Maybe I just need to sleep. Maybe I just need a break.’

on to make sense of what’s going on, to pass the time, to find hope, humour and inspiration. The exhibition that I’ve co-curated, for the first time, is called Somewhere I Live. It evolved from focusing on and celebrating Black creatives and moved onto exploring our connections to places, space, and what they mean to us. The goal of this exhibition echoes the question that you’re asking ‘what are we doing here?’ We’re a bunch of organisms bubbling around on some surface, surely there’s some sort of cooperation that’s supposed to happen and hopefully through that some sort of compassion. Art certainly has the potential to rewire our thinking into considering one another.’ Judith states that ‘art can help to shape reality and identity’ and that ‘psychology is both a science and an art.’ Johannil is the founder of the Black Art Therapist Network and her work centres on serving youth in under-resourced communities who have been impacted by trauma and violence. Johannil quotes Dr Lucille Venture, a Black pioneer ‘Mean ORtherapy Fed Up’field, as she explains that being an art therapist ‘is a mental of the art health profession that uses the creative process of art-making as a nonverbal communication tool to aid in problem-solving, healing, and individual growth.’ Art therapists can practise from different theoretical perspectives such as Cognitive Behavioural Therapy but ‘there is also humanistic art therapy, psychodynamic approaches to art therapy and more.’ Within this section, fine-art photographer and art therapist Johannil Napoleón provides insight into the connection of psychology and art via the practice of art therapy.

Was the lack of clothing purposefully meant to signify vulnerability? ‘I think I just wanted to draw different people and all the different bodies I had the pleasure of seeing in my life drawing classes. However, in the more recent paintings, the people are clothed. I have a friend who is both an educational and fashion psychologist. She’s so well versed on the meaning of your clothing, your wellbeing, how it signifies who you are, and how you can protect yourself with your clothes. I think maybe introducing clothes in that series is about my own self-identity developing over the years and being purposeful with the clothing I choose.’

Would you say that you believe art has the ability to benefit people’s mental state by allowing them to externalise internalised hatred? ‘Art can externalise and remove it from you so it’s not so painful to deal with. I think going through a process of trying to create something meaningful to you, sharing it, and being willing to talk about it with others allows you to think about where it [the selfhatred] came from and why you’ve allowed it to infiltrate and develop.’

On a larger scale is it possible that art can heal a wounded or recovering community? Even if we are stepping away with our own interpretations and meanings? ‘I think so. The traditional view of art is that it’s what people lean

What was your journey towards becoming an art therapist like? ‘I have been an artist since I was a child. I used performance and the visual arts to process my thoughts and feelings. Specifically, I used to dance, draw and write a lot to express how I felt. Growing up, I experienced trauma and poverty, which eventually led to my interest in psychology when I was in high school. I took a college credit introduction to a psychology course, and I vividly remember being so fascinated about human behaviour, emotion, and thought

‘Lazy OR Tired’ Judith Kusi

What are the benefits of this practise? ‘Often we do not have the words to express or communicate our pain; therefore, art gives space for nonverbal processing of thoughts and emotions. Art therapy encourages innovation, imagination, and self-expression. It enhances cognitive growth such as problemsolving skills, attention span, spatial skills, and decision-making skills. Art therapy can promote self-confidence and a sense of accomplishment. It can help reduce stress and anxiety, promote relaxation, and improve quality of life.’

How do you think this mode of therapy will develop in the future? ‘I believe that art therapy will become a popular modality for treatment to the point that the average person will know about art therapy. I also think the field will have more Black and Indigenous therapists and art therapists of colour. Currently, it is dominated by white female-identified art therapists. I know many Black art therapists are doing the work and are dedicated to seeing the field become more diverse, especially since most individuals in the communities we serve are non-white. The great work that Black art therapists are doing will help push the field forward concerning the increase of Black and Indigenous therapists, and art therapists of colour. These therapists will also help in formulating more frameworks that centre the unique experiences of Black and Indigenous communities and communities of colour.’

Are there any artistic methods you would recommend people bring into their weekly wellbeing routine? ‘Bilateral Drawing is used in art therapy for self-regulation. It is a simple technique that can be done each week. Grab a sheet of paper and two coloured pencils, crayons, or pastels. Place a coloured pencil in each hand, then scribble spontaneously on the paper using both hands simultaneously. Bilateral Drawing can help with feeling centred, reducing stress and anxiety, self-soothing purposes, and to feel grounded. Also, I think scribble drawing is a simple yet meaningful technique that people can do. Take a paper and a pen, pencil, marker, or crayon, and start scribbling on the paper. Scribble all around the paper with large hand motions. While you scribble, move the pencil intuitively; stay in the moment, do not think about the past or what you will do next. The process can promote focus and relaxation. When you’re done, look at it from different angles until you see an image amongst the scribbles. Once you identify it, trace, colour, and render the image. After completing the image, you can write down your thoughts and feelings about it. The image symbolises your subconscious.’ ‘Mean OR Fed Up’ Judith Kusi

processes. It was not until my senior year in college that I learned about art therapy from a classmate. As I researched the field, I became very excited as it spoke to my spirit. I felt like it was my calling, my purpose. That same year, I applied and was accepted to the art therapy graduate master’s program at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. I have been practising art therapy since I graduated in 2013.’

What does a typical session look like? ‘The art therapist may conduct an art-based assessment to obtain information about the client’s symptoms and possible diagnoses, interpersonal relationships, social relationships, strengths and struggles. The art therapist and client also collaborate in identifying goals for therapy. Sessions include either a direct or non-directive approach to address the presenting problem. The presenting issue may be symptoms of depression, low self-esteem, and so forth. The art therapist may have a specific intervention and art materials (directive) or provide art materials and space for the client to explore (non-directive) their thoughts and feelings freely. After creating the art piece, it is used to support the client in processing and articulating their thoughts and feelings. The art therapist asks open-ended questions about the client’s experience of creating the artwork and asks about the meaning of the colours, shapes, figures, etc. The client interprets their art piece and engages in processing with the therapist. The art therapist focuses on the process of creating the art piece rather than on the aesthetics of the artwork. In art therapy, what is most important is the client’s inner experience; how did you feel creating this piece? What thoughts came up for you in your process of creating?’

Rudolf Arnheim in Art And Visual Perception said that ‘psychologists are often interested in artistic activity mainly as an instrument for exploration of the human personality, as though art were little different from the Rorschach inkblot or the answers to a questionnaire.’ Art allows us, as quoted by Johannil, ‘to understand ourselves, others, our immediate environment, and the world around us simultaneously. Art is not limited to strict rules on what is and what is not possible.’ As both women have expressed through their personal and professional experience, to acknowledge the connection of art and psychology allows us to surpass expectations of what we can communicate and create when practising both.

Flash and Yearn

[content warning: physical harm/migrant crisis/ death mention]

By Toya Oladinni

[cw: physical harm/migrant crisis/ death mention]

her father descending and demanding not to be left out of the fun, which surely ended the moment a sixty-year-old began to smoke

‘after all the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, / we ourselves flash and yearn’

with them. Smoking with your dad sounded cool in theory but fell apart the more you thought about it.

The old yacht was set on fire by the chef after they let him go. On his last day he stowed away in a kitchen cabinet for hours, just darkness

She had accepted Katherine’s Greek holiday when it was tendered,

and a plastic bottle full of petrol, a cotton rag taped to his thigh.

the new yacht with a quiet staff and broad seas, but outside of her company Toyin wasn’t certain what exactly Katherine was receiving

‘I couldn’t even shout at him with the burns and all,’ Katherine’s

in exchange. A fly walks along her thigh and she shakes it off.

father says, screwing his face at the thought of the wrinkled flesh. ‘And it smelled horrible, like burnt popcorn and sewage.’ He shakes

The chef’s body was covered in burns. The flames licked flesh,

his head, standing on the bow with a flute of champagne and squints

tasted, and ate it away. The Greek police had made him wear a

at shapes on the horizon.

glove on his left hand so they could handcuff him to the bed, translucent skin flaking like filo-pastry. A police account held that

‘Why would he do something like that? Why would he stay on board

he must have stayed in the yacht for about eleven minutes, had he

for so long?’ Katherine asks, sipping a bright orange mimosa; it

stayed a few more he wouldn’t have made it out. The flames would

sparkles harshly with the same glint as the Aegean around her, like

have swallowed him entirely. The chef hadn’t spoken since. In the

crushed glass.

hospital, Katherine’s father spoke of waiving charges and leniency under certain conditions, and the chef sat there, blinking.

‘Well, we were paying his wages.’ ‘They weren’t bad wages,’ Katherine admits, with a furtive glance ‘I meant the boat. While it was on fire.’

in Toyin’s direction. ‘The Greeks aren’t paying the unemployed anything, especially now. Especially migrants.’

Katherine wonders if her father feels the same knot that she does. It rests on her chest like a stone.

‘We could’ve paid him a lot less than we did,’ her father mumbles

Toyin wonders the same thing as she puts her glass down with a

indignantly.

brief pang of disgust, before picking it up again and staring into the orange liquid; it yellows as she swirls around the glass. She imagines

Looking out to the horizon, a cluster of orange dots bob up and

the tendon linking her inner and outer lives severing, at last, the

down softly.

tissues springing free from one another. Her eyes and mouth are dry with smoke, hot weather, and the languid calm of early afternoon.

Toyin lies there, still, only lifting her arm to drink her sparkling mimosa. She blinks; in the corner of her eye, faintly imperceptible

Whilst befriending her at uni, Katherine had often told Toyin stories

but within eyeshot nonetheless, she sees a long-struggling man slip

from her past life: of her and her friends smoking in the basement,

quietly below the sea.

ella alvis ‘Aweng’

This is one of my favourite pieces. I named it ‘Aweng’ after the South Sudanese model. It is always one that catches people’s eye because of the stark contrast between her deep skin tone and the flat white background. I was able to create a piece of art that showed the beauty in Black features that are too often portrayed as undesirable when they are the complete opposite. I wanted people to see this piece and be drawn to it, to see the beauty and power that lies within Black women.

Th£ Profitability of Blackne$$ By tracey mwaniki

The pervasive power of Black culture as a contributor to broader pop culture is clear. Slang terms like ‘tea’, ‘shade’, and ‘yass kween’ have become part of the everyday lexicon of many online communities, but unbeknownst to many these words can be traced back to 1980s Black ballroom culture. This links to the unfortunate way in which specific cultural signifiers of Black people, and more specifically Black LGBTQ+ people, are co-opted and commodified as part of a cycle of online trends. The contemporary hypervisibility and fascination with Black femmes and trans women, as well as the drag and ballroom cultures they popularised, arguably has its risks as well as its benefits. As noted by writer Jen Richards in the documentary Disclosure, the portrayal of trans women in media by cisgender men has the potential to foster dangerous presumptions surrounding the legitimacy of trans identities. When cisgender, male actors play trans women, it perpetuates the false notion that trans women are in some way still men or taking on a temporary identity. The significance of not only representation but accurate and properly inclusive representation is clear when consideration is given to the daily experiences of real trans women. At the same time as Black LGBTQ+ culture is becoming increasingly mainstream, pervasive and profitable, violence against members of the community persists at shocking rates. In the US, at least 32 trans or

Gender Non-Conforming (GNC) people have been violently killed according to the Human Rights Campaign (HRC), most of whom were Black or Latinx trans women. This number is the highest since the HRC began tracking these statistics. Steps are slowly being taken to recognise the significance of the impact of Black trans women on the culture and activism of LGBTQ+ spaces. In recent Pride and Black History Months (February and October respectively), the name, stories, and imagery of Black and trans activists like Marsha P Johnson have become increasingly prominent. Marsha is best known for activism at the time of the Stonewall riots, and work supporting and sheltering at-risk trans youth. Recognition of Marsha’s work has come in many forms: Google doodles, ‘explainer’ articles in news outlets from Time magazine to Tatler, and even a monument in Greenwich Village, NY. These may all highlight the progress being made in helping shift the historical narratives surrounding Pride as a sanitised event led by cis, white gay men and recognising the contributions of trans activists and people of colour. Whilst this widespread recognition is undoubtedly its own landmark step, there is a significant extent to which Marsha’s story has been co-opted by people outside of Black, LGBTQ+ spaces for profit. No greater example of this can be found than the critically acclaimed Netflix documentary, The Death and Life of Marsha P Johnson. The director, David France is a gay, cis white man well known for his work documenting the activism of the AIDS crisis. When the documentary was first released, fellow filmmaker Tourmaline (a queer Black trans woman) accused France of having stolen some of the archival materials and ideas featured in the film from her work documenting Marsha’s life. The power dynamics were already stacked against Tourmaline, who at the

time was struggling to find funding for the film which would become ‘Happy Birthday Marsha!’. Although a significant amount of disagreement persists regarding to what extent Tourmaline’s claims are founded, it is indicative of a broader struggle by under-resourced Black LGBTQ+ people to find spaces that would benefit from sharing their own stories and histories. All of this is part of a very specific form of cultural appropriation: the commodification of Blackness, and Blackness as a profitable venture for nonBlack people. Black culture is ‘sanitised’ by non-Black people (including members of marginalised communities whose identities lie at the intersections of other forms of privilege, like white LGBTQ+ people) before being distributed for mass consumption. This phenomenon has been described by Nancy Leong as falling under the banner head of ‘racial capitalism’: socio-economic value systemically drawn from racial identity, typically from groups not belonging to said racial identities. The extent to which Black culture has become ‘mainstreamed’ and packaged into profitable ventures by non-Black people is well documented. ‘Vogueing’, a dance move popularised in the LGBTQ+, Black, and Latinx spaces of 1980s Ballroom culture was taken on and popularised by Madonna. Accusations of cultural appropriation from Black women have been levied against the Kardashians numerous times, from their hairstyles to the artistic direction of their photoshoots (see: the parallels between Kim’s 2014 ‘break the internet’ Paper Magazine cover and 1970s/80s pictures of Black women like Carolina Beaumont and Grace Jones by Jean Paul-Goode). What can often prove most disheartening is not only the lack of credit and attribution for these cultural contributions but the consequential erasure and sometimes

mockery of Black culture. When parts of a recognised dialect become a ‘trend’, as quickly as they are adopted (and often used incorrectly) by non-Black people, they become discarded and viewed as outdated internet slang. Bit by bit, this erodes at a rich, complex, and constantly evolving culture. The process of ‘losing’ words to this cycle also extends to the dilution of terms and ideas that serve to accurately explain the Black experience and support Black activism. The words ‘Karen’ and ‘Woke’ are two slightly different examples of this. Whilst ‘Karen’ began as a somewhat tongue-in-cheek term to refer to the archetypal white woman who perpetuates racist microaggression, media discourse has rendered the term meaningless. The most concerning takes have ironically often come from white women like Hadley Freedman, who tweeted out concerns that the term was ‘sexist, ageist, and classist’. The term ‘Woke’ was first used by Black revolutionaries to refer to a specific need for consistent alertness in the drive for change and racial justice in a system which is fundamentally unjust. In 1965, Martin Luther King gave a speech referring to the need for young people to ‘remain awake through the social revolution’. Erykah Badu later helped further popularise the term ‘stay Woke’ in the 2008 song Master Teacher. In recent years, however, it has also suffered from dilution by way of widespread and incorrect usage. ‘Wokeness’ has become profitable in its most basic sense: corporations often virtue signal by declaring the bare minimum of support for marginalised groups. The word ‘Woke’ has now often come to represent a derisory term for ‘the Left’. It is used as a foghorn by right-leaning commentators and their followers alongside notions like ‘political correctness’.

'The term ‘Woke’ was first used by Black revolutionaries to refer to a specific need for consistent alertness in the drive for change and racial justice in a system which is f u n d a m e n t a l ly unjust.' The material impact of this is that Black voices are drowned out and dismissed as ‘Woke’ when they try to raise genuine concerns about pervasive systemic racism, something our ‘Wokeness’ teaches us to be constantly aware of. Simultaneously, corporations are able to profit from the imagery of social justice, whilst doing little to nothing to dismantle the systems which materially contribute towards the oppression of marginalised groups. In the UK, young Black people often speak ‘MLE’ (Multicultural London English) which has developed from a combination of other London dialects and Afro-Caribbean Creole languages. MLE is often described as a ‘sociolect’ rather than a dialect, as its speakers can typically be delineated along class rather than regional lines. Nevertheless,

as noted in 2019 by the ex-headmaster of Harrow, this kind of dialect is often appropriated by wealthy, typically white public schoolboys to obscure and avoid the negative connotations associated with said wealth. This is typically seen in social settings, with these young people often being able to ‘revert’ to their more traditionally upper-class methods of speech in professional settings. This further compounds the extent to which young people of colour see their natural patterns of speech designated as unprofessional. In practice, this commodification of Blackness often seems to effectively amount to a modern minstrel show. The over usage of Black LGBTQ+ people and women in modern memes and reaction GIFs has been termed ‘digital blackface’ and brings its own unique harms. Notably, it often reinforces stereotypes and places specific, narrow forms of Blackness at the forefront of the public consciousness. Ultimately, where Blackness brings economic and cultural capital, it is often to the benefit of non-Black people and the erasure of the people who contributed towards it. Black culture, through this machinery, is viewed as transient, ‘trendy’, and a commodity for temporary entertainment rather than a meaningful set of expressions by a community. The call to action is not one of cultural separation, but for respect, recognition, and efforts towards genuine understanding. At its core level, Black people should be able to be the primary beneficiaries of the proliferation of Black culture; as it stands, we are a long way from achieving this.

By Tracey Mwaniki

skai campbell ‘us lot’

By Skai Campbell

60 seconds: How Tiktok redefined activism ‘If I can’t dance, I don’t want your revolution!’ - Emma Goldman

etter known for its dance crazes, catchy songs, and ridiculous challenges than its revolutionary potential, TikTok has proven to be an indispensable tool of modern activism. Its role in the unprecedented success of the 2020 Black Lives Matter Movement (BLM) was one not too dissimilar from the impact Twitter, Facebook, and BBM (remember Blackberry Messenger?) had on mass protests and civil disobedience earlier in the decade. However, TikTok is unique in a few distinct ways. Namely, it embodies a contemporary trend in activism that has enabled the wider participation of the general public. Through quirky features and editing, it enables the creative talent of Gen Z and millennials to intersect with real issues of culture and society. Until now, the frontlines of the BLM movement were in the streets. In 2020, a multi-racial, socio-economically diverse coalition of groups and individuals came together to advocate for Black Lives and against institutional anti-blackness and state violence. They were also on social media, where people were debating racist relatives and sharing the countless videos of the graphic violence and harassment that ethnic minorities face. The histories and philosophies behind the antiracist and anti-colonial struggle quickly rose to the surface. To scroll on TikTok or even the more superficial platform Instagram recently is to discover feminist, environmentalist, vegan, and anti-racist accounts. Through specially designed infographics and videos, they reach hundreds of people easily, contributing to the constant flood of information. These visual mediums are accelerating the ease with which radical ideologies can be digested, understood, and spread, in a way akin to the revolutionary pamphlets of the past in workplaces and community hubs. It is often said that social media is a great equaliser, providing a medium where the voices of the powerful

and the powerless can be heard with equal opportunity. Whilst this is patently not the whole picture—given advertising and PR are giant, lucrative industries—it is evident that the relatively powerless have achieved a new shared power used to inform and mobilise through its medium. Many acknowledge that traditional print and television media possess the power to control not only the topic but also the perspective of conversation. The British media’s coverage of refugees and asylumseekers using unsafe dinghies to reach British shores epitomises this. The media bias meant that there was unclear coverage, wherein vulnerable people were portrayed as a ‘crisis’, inducing moral panic. Their choice not to deliver the same invasive scrutiny to the government’s incompetence that led to 40,000+ Covid-19 deaths as well as their moral reservations and critical commentary of the BLM movement and Extinction Rebellion demonstrate the fundamental errors of our socio-economic paradigm. Traditional media does not focus on the social inequalities that have led to disproportionate Covid-19 deaths within the Black and Minority Ethnic (BME) community, or the severe immigration policies that led to the death of Abdulfatah Hamdallah who lacked a safe and legal route to the UK. Neither is it concerned by the severe disparity of our education system, made more visible by the classist and racist algorithm that decided A-level and GCSE grades. Due to this absence of transparency, there is a distrust amongst young audiences and these young activists of all ideological backgrounds are now the counterpoint to the biases of our institutions. The drive to create viral shareable content mimics the so-called ‘marketplace of ideas’ that liberals claim is a central aspect of a democratic society. The collaborative, not competitive, process that underlines the political content creation process has incentivised short, jargonfree, example-based, and explanatory visuals or auditory material that teenagers, as well as older individuals, can enjoy. This trend towards accessible organising as well as simple education, has enabled movements to garner faster and broader support bases for demonstrations and direct action. Notably, in the case of Trump’s first rally after lockdown, K-pop fans on TikTok encouraged false sign-ups to block actual attendees to the rally causing severe political embarrassment and decreased turnout for his political grandstanding. Likewise, shareable content on Twitter, TikTok, Instagram, and Facebook has been vital in increasing the speed with which Breonna Taylor, Elijah Mcclain, George Floyd, Belly Mujinga, Oluwatoyin Salau, and many others became popularly recognised, though not all of their

‘These visual mediums are accelerating the ease with which radical ideologies can be digested, understood, and spread, in a way akin to the revolutionary pamphlets of the past in workplaces and community hubs.’ cases have had a positive resolution. Political organising is now able to reach disenfranchised and non-electorally engaged constituents, especially working-class and minority non-voters who are nevertheless passionate and literate on said social issues. At their core, Twitter and other forms of social media are microblogging sites that provide a personal insight into the perspective of specific individuals and their lived experiences. The empowerment of these people provides a diary for which their reaction to current affairs and injustice can be amplified by intra-community sharing and content creation. This essentially means the same force of nature that allowed the ‘Don’t Rush challenge’ started by Black British young people to reach as far as Barack Obama’s playlist is the same force enabling marginalised communities to speak their truth louder than ever. These voices have been critical to unapologetic Black, socialist, and youth organising which has empowered activists to conquer popular discourse like never before. However, without recourse to the great powers that traditional media and politicians have, the imbalance will be perpetuated. It is one thing to capitalise on trends and virality to champion a cause, but just as Breonna Taylor’s case and

its unjust conclusion has demonstrated, this can only go so far. The disconnect between the online landscape and the often regressive values held by communities around the world has been highlighted by the 2016 election of Donald Trump, the vote for Brexit, and Jeremy Corbyn’s loss in 2019. The great drawback of this innovation in activism is how the democratisation and virality of global current affairs—such as the explosion in Lebanon covered wildly by social and mainstream media, LGBTQIA+ rights activists in Poland or #ENDSARS protests in Nigeria— have become ‘trendy’. Death has become content. The memeification of important causes has the potential to diminish their credibility and regularly delivers traumaporn to our blue screens. I am tired of seeing Black Death, in HD, CCTV or bodycam footage delivered in amusing or sensationalist formats. Performative declarations of solidarity accompanied by actions such as hashtagging and the signing of irrelevant petitions can damage the momentum of sustainable campaigns. White liberal ‘allies’ who speak up through retweets and black Instagram squares or BLM links in their bios are likely to take up the space of genuine activists who not only post Angela Davis quotes but live her ethos. The online commodification of revolutionary ideals, language, and imagery are common and deadly for modern social movements. On TikTok and other social media, this usually looks like brands, celebrities and political parties positioning themselves as radical, anticapitalist, ‘Pro-Black’ or abolitionist in their dialogue, whilst often moderate or even actively harmful in their actions. Performativity within activism is deadly. When Nike is claiming to side with Colin Kaepernick’s battle against police brutality or when Ben and Jerry’s critiques the US military-industrial complex, it often distracts from the harm these very same companies do. It deflects attention away from the system that has allowed them to exist and profit on such a huge scale. More still, social media is still a sucker for a brilliant visual or profound(ly funny) piece of written content that allows style to supersede substance. We can only truly resolve issues with the diligence and vigilance of genuine radical, and culturally adept organisers who can verify who’s actually doing the work—both on TikTok and on the ground. The next revolution may not be televised, but with TikTok, it may at least go viral.

By Tito Mogaji-Williams

Ella Lebeau ‘take 2’

CROSS THE LINE Inspired by Odita’s painting Firewall ‘I want to use colour to have an effect on the mind and body.’ - Odili Donald Odita

Someone stares within me, desperate to dissect every alignment, every possibility of colour. Shuddering, they cast their gaze away and then brave another glance. Eyes glint, grinding jaw unsettled—disturbed, even. Somebody notices their frown and asks, ‘Why do you not like it?’ Someone replies, ‘Because it doesn’t tell me what to think.’ Somebody is also looking, eyes combing the patterns that make me whole. Somebody exhales (and so do I). We become one. Someone notices their smile, asks, ‘Why do you like it? Somebody replies, ‘Because it doesn’t tell me what to think.’

By Danique Bailey

More Than Meets the Eye: A Series of Vignettes By Aisha Rimi

disabled /dis eibld/ adjective 1. (of a person) having a physical or mental condition that limits their movements, senses, or activities. 2. relating to or specifically designed for people with a physical or mental disability.

What image is conjured in your mind when you hear the word ‘disabled’? You thought of a wheelchair, didn’t you? Well, here’s a fun fact: roughly 92% of disabled people in the UK do not use a wheelchair. Disability is much more than meets the eye. I have what I call a physical disability which manifests itself as a hidden one. I’m an amputee; I lost my left leg in a car accident as a baby. In this think piece, I’d like you to follow me on my journey of mundane everyday tasks as you delve into the mind and musings of a disabled woman.

A Morning Commute The Airport Security Sweat. Pain. Discomfort. Breathlessness. These words can all be used to sum up a typical morning commute in London. It’s 7:40 am and I have seven minutes to make my train. The next bus is five minutes away. I do the mental maths: with a quick sprint, I could make it to the station, but the bus would be easier. I’ve been in this position before and I know the timings are too tight and sometimes unreliable. And so, I set off on foot, determined to power walk my way to the station. I can make it. I walk along the high street, school children weaving in and out of pedestrians as they skip and bustle their way to school. I narrowly miss bumping into one child as she darts down the pavement. The sudden halt has me unsteady on my feet, leaning onto my left side, my unstable side, unable to balance myself as quickly on my prosthetic leg. But I catch myself and I continue. The Morrisons by the traffic lights is now in sight, and I can feel the sweat beginning to build up in the socket of my prosthesis as my stump works increasingly hard, pushing my prosthetic leg into action. The discomfort begins to set in as my hurriedness puts on an added pressure and weight onto my leg. As I make it over the bridge, I check my watch and see I have three minutes to make it. I pray that the train is slightly delayed, allowing me a little more time. In the meantime, pain begins to shoot up my stump and it becomes sweatier. I find myself limping to help push my body over the peak point of the bridge, the train tracks are now in sight, just two minutes away. A strain in the lower part of my real leg sears, but I try my best to overcome it all. I’m there, I’m almost there. Just when I think the obstacles are over, I’m met with a flights of stairs. There is no lift. I can hear the train pull into the tracks, so I muster the energy I have left to rush up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I make it to the platform, train doors beeping as they almost shut, but I make it just in time. I made it. But this is just my journey to the station. Another hour of work to go…

‘Beep, beep, beep.’ The metal detector goes off above my head and I’m ushered over to the side by one of the security staff. A routine occurrence for me when travelling, this is just another step on the travel checklist for me. My friends, on the other hand, have the liberty of breezing through airport security. The only thing that might delay them is a forgotten belt still firmly securing their jeans or a watch hidden under their jumper sleeves. But for me, I know that the second I walk through that metal detector, the red light will flash above, and the alarm will go off. I’ll get the attention that I’m not searching for at an airport and I’ll be asked to step aside. When the security check is happening on this side of the world, I’ll quickly say, ‘Oh, I’ve got a prosthetic leg,’ before they start scanning my body for whatever suspect items they’re searching for. There’s an immediate understanding, a sensitivity, a sense of dignity that is offered to me as I am ushered to the side and quickly patted down as they chit chat with me, engaging me in some humorous conversation. They finish their inspection, wish me a safe trip, and I go on through. My mind isn’t at ease in the same way upon my return. As I wait in the queue towards the security check, I quickly google search the phrase ‘I have a prosthetic leg’ in a language that’s not my own, hoping that these five words will be clear as I recite them back in a few minutes. Perhaps if it’s a female security officer, I’ll lift my dress slightly for her to comprehend without me butchering her language. Sometimes, that’s enough and I encounter a similar quick scan with the metal detector. But there are particular countries where I’ll be taken off into a side room, usually with two female staff, and I’ll be asked to pull my trousers down for them to inspect. The first couple of times, it was a little embarrassing, being steered away into such a small space with strangers asking to see such a personal part of my body. I’m used to it now. But it doesn’t mean the anxiety of being searched has completely gone away.

My Shoe Shopping

For a woman who loves putting outfits together and developing her personal style, I have never quite fallen in love with shoes. I hear women say they love shoes, that it’s their weakness. As for me, I have a grand total of about three or four pairs that I’ll wear all year round, with my sandals making an appearance for the two weeks of British summer we’re so graciously given. This is because shoe shopping, for me, is a struggle I try my best to avoid, unless absolutely necessary. So much thought and preparation goes into such a simple action for me. When buying boots, I can’t choose a heel that’s too high or too heavy, otherwise, I’ll struggle to walk, and it will add to the weight of my prosthetic leg. When searching for summer shoes, strapless sandals and flip flops are a no-no, unless I want to walk around barefoot (they’ll come right off if there’s no support around the back). On the rare occasion that I am looking for heels, I’m conscious of how thick the heel is. Stilettos are definitely not an option; the chunkier the better. As a child, my real foot and my prosthetic foot were often different sizes, thanks to my continuous growth, which made the shoe shopping experience an exhausting one. I remember using a shoehorn to help ease my inflexible foot into various school shoes; now my thumb is the one that suffers as I twist and pull at shoes to ensure they fit correctly. As I’ve grown up, I’ve found comfort in trainers, the one type of shoe that gives me no stress and so much comfort. If I could wear them in every setting, I would. But we all know that’s not possible. This caused me quite a bit of stress, when one morning, I found myself dangerously close to being late to an interview because I couldn’t get my foot into my boot. Have you ever tried using that as an excuse for lateness? Well, I twisted and turned my prosthetic foot in every angle imaginable. I huffed and I groaned in pain as my thumbnail fell victim to the process and bent backwards. I almost cried as I saw the time tick away and the thought of wearing my trainers instead, and subsequently making a questionable impression on my interviewer, became increasingly likely. Yet just like every other challenging moment my disability brings, big or small, I overcame it.

‘I see women of all shapes and sizes walking around the pool in their swimsuits. An expected sight at a location like this, but there’s a sense of pride and confidence that comes across as they strut around the pool.’ Swimming in Seville

The summer sun is scorching and all I want to do is to jump into the hotel pool and cool off in the chlorinated water. But I hesitate. I draw one of the huge towels over me, so the lower half of my body is hidden. My mind is working rapidly, trying to figure out a way to remove my leg and to get into the pool without anyone noticing my severe body difference. I slide my prosthesis off under the towel, the build-up of sweat making it easier. A sense of relief overcomes me as the constraint of the prosthesis is no longer adding pressure to my body and I’m completely free. I’m not far from the pool, and with a quick hop, I could jump into the pool unnoticed to avoid the awkward stares and potential strangers coming over to ask questions. But as I look around, I notice something: I see women of all shapes and sizes walking around the pool in their swimsuits. An expected sight at a location like this, but there’s a sense of pride and confidence that comes across as they strut around the pool. This portrayal is regardless of whatever their innermost thoughts may be; at this moment they remind me of something important. I too can jump into the pool without a care (in the world) for what anyone else thinks.

Disabled people don’t want your sympathy, but rather your understanding. We’re not your inspiration, we’re just people trying our best to get on with our lives like everyone else. The term ‘disabled’ may come with negative connotations, but remember, we are only as ‘able’ as society enables us to be. Yes, I have my limitations, but I must also remind myself that it is society that disables me and enables you. Society accommodates the everyday moments that make up everyday needs for able-bodied people. Advocating for equal accessibility means pointing out and asking about accessibility features where you see none. It also means really listening to those that are affected by society’s complicated relationship with disability, and taking our experiences as truth. This is the only way we will be able to make a dent in a world that still sidelines my needs and that of millions of others. It is time for able-bodied people to see beyond the visibility of their worlds. There is always more than meets the eye.

RIVERLAND

// riverland. our shouting rivers widen streets for cities of skin undersie(ge). ÎŚ

green patches by Rosa Arthur

We lie on the earth My mother has copper in her eyes and a thick frown

like gathered fabric

nestled firmly between her brows

These threads tighten over time creating trenches aided by the sun No one came to smoothen them out when they were merely a contour of creases She needs to teach me how to sew like she does So I can patch them over With shades of green Her Chapped lips Pour out a smile as water does and invites me home to dissolve trouble into ripples I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see the wind but the tree it sways the branches bend as I do to help her up

I was born in Cape Town, South Africa and moved to Slough in the UK when I was 8. Although I’ve spent most of my life here now, many parts of my identity are still connected to South Africa: my early childhood, our family home, my extended family, and of course my heritage. Black people living in the UK are constantly ‘othered’ and homogenised as a monolithic group. There are no doubt shared experiences, but navigating identity and Britishness as a first-generation immigrant differs from those who have spent their whole lives here and are surrounded by their established family units. Vivid memories of my childhood in South Africa sit alongside my formative and adult experiences in the UK and I often find myself mulling over the different strands of my identity and what Britishness means to me. Through conversations with other first-generation immigrants, we gather our thoughts on cultural nuances, recognising how identity labels morph and shift according to time and place.

How did you find adjusting to life in the UK? T: ‘For me, the first step was learning to understand English and grasping the ways in which people speak or phrase things, small gestures, pronunciation, and also seeing a diverse group of people. I also had to learn that people who looked like me didn’t necessarily speak the same language as me or understand me.’ S: ‘Adjusting was a little hard, especially because people in the UK don’t know the British Empire’s history. I would be told ‘you speak great English’, yet I would also be made fun of for my accent, for calling crisps “chips” and trainers “sneakers”. To this day the way I say “off” is always something someone picks up on. But I must admit that my experience would be different from someone who is darker-skinned, such as my brother. I would be called exotic because people couldn’t quite pin where ‘I came from’ which is never a compliment.

Writer:

‘Adjusting to the education system was also hard. I was diagnosed with dyslexia at 18 because my Kristen Bingle, 26, Cape Town, South Africa: primary and secondary school teachers just ‘I consider myself both British and South African. assumed I struggled because “English wasn’t my I’m slowly attempting to embrace all the nuances first language”—yet it was the only one I knew.’ of both these identities.’

Interviewees: Emmanuel Omodeinde, 23, Abeokuta, Nigeria: ‘I guess I would say I’m from Leeds now—most of the time. I was born in Nigeria though.’ Sasha Langeveldt, 23, Mutare, Zimbabwe: ‘Zimbabwean with a British passport.’ Thabo Xabanisa, 26, Pretoria, South Africa: ‘When I’m outside of the UK, I’ll say I’m South African but I’ll also mention I live in London as a reference point. People may then have a better understanding of what I could be like because South Africa is quite distant from Europe.’

People would also ask “why is your accent like that? Did you learn English by watching American shows?” They didn’t know we are taught in English in Zimbabwe, which is a consequence of colonialism. All in all, the UK is a very hostile environment but does offer some opportunities.’ E: ‘Adjusting to life in the UK in my first few years definitely wasn’t a smooth process. I was naturally a shy person anyway, so it was difficult fitting in at first. Making friends in school helped me significantly in breaking out of my shell and feeling like I belonged (at least within a group).’

Where do you feel most at home? E: ‘I feel most home around my family and people I love. I have a tenuous bond with my extended family in Nigeria just because

there are some cultural differences and the long period of not being able to visit them. I do want to visit Nigeria again, but for now, I see Britain as my home. Despite the hostility and racism, as long as I’m surrounded by loved ones I feel at home.’ T: ‘My house in London and being around family and friends. I feel comfortable around those who have a similar cultural upbringing to me (people raised in London, growing up around the same music, shows etc.). I guess this is where the duality of my identity comes in. I can still relate to other people from South Africa and connect with them regarding how we see our country.’ S: ‘Having lived in the UK practically my whole life I feel at home here, but I know I will never be fully accepted here, so Zimbabwe is my home, home. At the same time, I feel like I do not belong anywhere. I still have Zimbabwean characteristics, having left at such a young age, but if I went back I wouldn’t be called Zimbabwean; they would probably say I’m from the UK. My identity has morphed into something that doesn’t belong anywhere, my identity is homeless. I guess I am me and that will have to be good enough for anywhere I go next.’

How do you feel your experiences of British identity differ from those of the second or third generation? E: ‘You know I can’t speak much to this because I only have one close friend of Black Caribbean heritage. Almost every Black friend or acquaintance I have is firstgeneration and of West African descent, with a few from Southern Africa. I can say that in school—being one of the few Black kids of African descent and the majority of Black kids being of Caribbean descent—I noticed they fit in more neatly not just because they had been born here but because they had an extended family unit here.’ S: ‘I think it’s different because we were not born here. I still have vivid memories of my life in Zimbabwe, whereas when you’re

born here you have two identities that make you whole. Being born in a country is a part of you even if you deny it.’ T: ‘I guess it’s one of those ones where they grew up in the culture, unlike me having to adjust, assimilate, and understand how I fit into the community. For them, from an earlier stage, they know their identity or their sense of belonging within different communities. For me, they don’t necessarily feel the pain of missing home or a place where you grew up or a life you had before you came here.’

How has your heritage helped to inform your identity? E: ‘I definitely went through a long period of time in my early teens (when we had moved to a working-class neighbourhood within a predominantly middle-class white suburb) where I felt alienated and disconnected from my heritage. Like every teenager, I desperately wanted to fit in and be accepted. So, although I didn’t outright reject my Nigerianness, I distanced myself from it. That changed when we started attending a mixed church with a large Nigerian population; I found other like-minded first-generation Nigerian immigrants who made me feel I could be both British and Nigerian without compromising any part of myself.’ T: ‘I guess when I don’t feel like I have a sense of belonging, my heritage is always there to remind me where I belong. It reassures me when I feel out of place.’ S: ‘This is a hard one because I have mixed heritage. All I truly know is that I was born in Zimbabwe— that is a huge part of who I am. I did have an early identity crisis when I got my ‘23 and Me’ DNA results back, which told me I was more European than Zimbabwean. Still, I guess the more I grow up, the more I fall in love with my Zimbabwean culture.’ How have your experiences in the UK helped to shape your identity? E: ‘It’s shaped my entire life. I feel like I only have a few years of solid memories of

Nigeria, they’re not insignificant but I was still a literal child. My 14 years in Britain have had a much bigger impact on my life and ultimately, a positive one despite the fact we still deal with the brutal legacies of slavery and colonialism. That’s why we’re here in the first place. I feel happy with who I’ve become and my environment has had a big say in how that’s turned out. Not everyone has been so lucky; I went to school with some kids who are also firstgeneration African immigrants for whom it hasn’t turned out so smoothly. Also, my life has been shaped by others who were white British and I can’t ignore that. All of it has made me who I am and I wouldn’t change a thing.’ T: ‘Living here has allowed me to experience a different style of life than the one I was born into and added another layer to my identity. I’ve been around likeminded people and those who have similar upbringings to me and this gave me a sense of belonging and community.’ S: ‘The sad thing is racism for me. I have never been fully accepted here, but it has encouraged me to look at the beauty that is already within me.’

Do you consider yourself to be British? S: ‘No, not really even though I have lived here for a huge chunk of my life I will always be considered different, especially with my accent. When someone asks me where I’m from I love to annoyingly answer Watford, because I know that question is fueled by racist tropes. I normally say to someone genuinely asking that I am Zimbabwean, I was born there but moved to the UK when I was young and I am currently based in Watford. To me, Zimbabwe will come first before I ever call myself British.’ T: ‘I place my South African culture, identity, and heritage before anything else. In terms of relating to the culture I grew up around, I identify with the London culture. I guess when it’s convenient for me to be British, I’ll be British, but I don’t consider myself to be British.’

‘I guess when I don’t feel like I have a sense of belonging, my heritage is always there to remind me where I belong. It reassures me when I feel out of place.’ - Thabo xabanisa E: ‘I identify as British. Also Nigerian, British-Nigerian, and Black British. My answer changes depending on the context of the question and who’s asking it. I am very proud of my Nigerian heritage and the small, but not insignificant part of my childhood spent there. If I’m speaking to someone who is Nigerian, I might say I’m also Yoruba. But I find it’s not just Nigerians who are familiar with the particular ethnic groups of African countries. We all grew up together. We get it. I’m more likely to use the prefix, Black British, as I think it more accurately describes a similar shared experience of Britain I have with my Black peers.’ As first-generation immigrants we experience our cultural and national identities very fluidly; they’re fickle and change depending on the context, time, place, and with whom we’re speaking. I often feel like I exist in a weird space between South Africa and the UK. I find myself subconsciously trying to prove myself to different people. I left South Africa at a pivotal moment in my life; I was in my second year of school, I’d made friends, I was going to ballet lessons, learning how to play the recorder, and just beginning to feel confident. Although I had known for a long time that we’d be going to live in the UK, the move was still abrupt and a shock. I had grown very close to my cousins and even more so with my grandma; moving to Britain left those relationships underdeveloped. Identity is something we navigate every single day, regardless of the spaces in which we find ourselves. When we force ourselves to really think deeply about the layers and strands of our identity we can begin to break down the impact of moving. These kinds of thought processes and conversations help us develop more concrete ideas on who we consider ourselves to be and our place in the world.

FEAR AND WONDER By E.M. Ayovunefe ‘Yeah g, I don’t, sometimes I ask myself, like, you know, what is it going to take for me not to be afraid? To be loved the way, like, I really wanna be loved? But that I know how I really wanna be loved, but I’m, but I’m, like, scared to really, really feel that. You know, it’s like you want something but you don’t know if you can handle it. [...] You give me that hope that, um, I’ll love again. Maybe one day I’ll get over my fears and I’ll receive.’ — Blood Orange, Hope (feat. Diddy & Tei Shi) ‘No man is an island, entire of itself. Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.’ — John Donne, ‘Meditation XVII’ in Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, and severall steps in my Sicknes

you cannot love what you fear but in the same breath that a lightning bolt cleaves an oak in two, dewy puffs of rain revive the soil underfoot. that the lightning bolt cauterises the tree’s bloody stump is an accident of nature, not an act of love. still, the heavens rage on. you cannot love what you fear but when i last sat astride your shoulders the world was with me and the world was me. hoisting me up like my heart weighed nothing, you draped the sky across my shoulders for a cape; from the dizzying height you looked a colossus urging the very earth to turn beneath your feet. you cannot love what you fear but in my youth i could feel winter arrive on a breath the world had held in all year, could catch swirls of passion in the air like snowflakes on my tongue. nature kissed the nape of my neck and i would come alive again, ready to embrace all my new selves.

you cannot love what you fear, and so the winter is different now. the voices of communion meet with silence: the concert of humanity has grown as quiet as my soul has timid—where terror and glory once fused in my heart, now only longing, a reminder of all i have betrayed. you cannot love what you fear, so i forget things and i live in the past, lost at the border between memory and imagination, as afraid of moving as i am of standing still. in the noon of my life, the moon looms overhead; portending all the yesterdays i’ve forgotten and every tomorrow i’ve yet to waste.

‘A moment to decide. Circa no future’ Nadia Huggins

mma sante’s scent.

district and also became the first African American candidate for a major party’s nomination for President of the United States; she was also the first woman to run for the Democratic Party’s presidential nomination. Chisholm is portrayed by Uzo Aduba, who won an Emmy Award for her role in the series.

mma Asante is an actor, screenwriter, director, and one of the most influential Black filmmakers in the UK. She was born in London to two Ghanaian parents in 1969 and is a first-generation immigrant. In 2017 she won an MBE and in 2018 she became the first woman to receive the British Urban Film Festival honorary award for outstanding contribution to film and television. Despite this, many people have never heard of her or her work. We don’t often see Black British women who are filmmakers take centre stage or gain the recognition they deserve. However, with the recent announcement of her next film The Billion Dollar Spy – a Cold War thriller starring Mads Mikkelsen and Armie Hammer – Amma Asante may finally get her chance to break into mainstream media.

Amma Asante’s main body of work focuses on Black identity and narratives, where she particularly delves into interracial relationships and biracial identities. Asante often uses these themes to explore lesser-known histories and figures, and much of her work is based on true events and stories. Her main feature films are: A Way of Life [dir. 2004], Belle [dir. 2013], A United Kingdom [dir. 2016] and Where Hands Touch [dir. 2018].

What Asante lacks in extensive filmography she makes up for with high-calibre work: she currently holds four feature films, as well as multiple episodes of the award-winning series The Handmaid’s Tale and Mrs. America, under her director’s belt. Through her work, Asante shows her love of directing the narratives of Black women – when working on Mrs. America she expressed special interest in directing episode three, which focuses on Shirley Chisholm, the first African American woman elected to the United States Congress. Chisholm represented New York’s 12th congressional

In A Way of Life, Asante explores a small town in Wales and shows how ignorance, lack of education and anger lead to the beating and subsequent death of Hassan Osman: it depicts racism in its many guises. Leigh-Anne, a white single mother in her late teens, struggles with life and is raising her daughter with little support from her family. She directs her building anger at her Turkish neighbour Hassan because she believes he fabricated lies about her and passed them on to social services. This results in Leigh-Anne thinking her daughter will be taken away from her, and this misdirected anger

leads Leigh-Anne to manipulate her brother Gavin and their friends Robbie and Stephen into attacking Hassan. Belle is Asante’s crowning jewel. I remember seeing the poster of Gugu Mbatha-Raw as the titular character and being instantly drawn to it. I was a teenager and it was the first time that I had seen a biracial woman playing a historic character. It was also the first time I had seen a classic British period film with a Black woman at the forefront, and I have never seen anything like it since. While I acknowledge the steps needed for increased representation of darker-skinned women as protagonists, the centring of a Black woman protagonist with a biracial identity on-screen was a truly transcendent experience for me. Belle was inspired by the famous painting of Dido Elizabeth Belle and her cousin Lady Elizabeth Murray. Dido was raised by her uncle and aunt. Her uncle, William Murray (1st Earl of Mansfield and Lord Chief Justice) made the final judgement in the Somersett’s case, a seminal step towards the abolition of slavery in the British Empire. Based on a true story, the film looks at Dido’s life as an illegitimate, biracial aristocrat in 18th-century England. The film also explores Dido’s romantic relationship with John Davinier, who eventually became her husband, and Lord Mansfield’s decision in the Somersett’s case (which is renamed the Zong appeal in the film). Belle is the most nuanced periodical exploration of Black biracial identity I have seen within the canon. The film takes on themes such as colourism, interracial relationships and societal belonging within the backdrop of the 18th century. As the film progresses, Dido begins to come to terms with her identity. In one of the best scenes of the film, she tells her fiancé that she can no longer marry him as ‘my greatest misfortune would be to marry into a family who would carry me as their shame, as I have been required to carry my own mother – her apparent crime to be born negro, and mine to be the evidence.’ Belle is about transgressing the boundaries that society places on you and persevering through adversity for what you believe to be right, and for the ones that you love. It is a film that I always rewatch to witness Asante’s knack for pairing romance with politics and race conversations. She executes this in a unique way that not only enhances the storytelling, but also teaches the viewer about a history that many of us have never learnt. Another key theme of Asante’s work is her focus on the minutiae of relationships – Asante uses relationship dynamics to explore wider social stories and cultural

histories, examining how each choice we make affects other people, towns, and even countries. We see this brilliantly portrayed in A United Kingdom, a true story adapted from Susan Williams’s book The Colour Bar. Beginning in 1947, the film narrates the story of how the Bechuanaland Protectorate became the Republic of Botswana. It tells the tale of Seretse Khama, the heir to the throne of Bechuanaland who is preparing to become king – while studying in England, he meets a white British woman, Ruth Williams, who he falls in love with and eventually marries. However, the neighbouring countries of Bechuanaland, namely South Africa, are less than thrilled with the match, as they are about to formalise apartheid in their country; having an interracial couple ruling Bechuanaland undermines their position. The British government does everything in its power to keep Ruth and Seretse apart and to stop Seretse from taking his rightful place as king. This leads to an arduous journey and the eventual creation of the Republic of Botswana, of which Seretse becomes the first elected President. He also manages to protect the country’s natural diamond resources, which the British try to take for themselves, and by doing so drastically improves the economic prosperity of the country. Ruth and Seretse’s legacies live on to this day: their son Ian Khama was Vice President of Botswana from 1998– 2008 and the fourth elected President from 2008–2018. Ian Khama was President whilst A United Kingdom was being filmed and even visited the set. A United Kingdom was the first feature film to be filmed on location in Botswana and its success led to Asante being the first Black British woman to open the London Film Festival. In the film, David Oyelowo and Rosamund Pike play the two main characters with chemistry and magnetism that draws viewers to the screen. Respectful to the subject matter and the real-life people it portrays, A United Kingdom is a beautiful film which explores belonging, birthrights, and love while astutely analysing race relations in the UK and Botswana in the late 40s and 50s. As with Belle, A United Kingdom explores a complicated and interesting part of British and African history, delving deep into Britain’s colonial past. Where Hands Touch is Amma Asante’s cinematic lesson about the so-called ‘Rhineland Bastards’: the children of African soldiers and German mothers who occupied Germany in the First World War and were persecuted during the Third Reich. British students often learn about the Second World War, but I personally didn’t know about the existence of the Rhineland Bastards

Belle (2013)

A United Kingdom (2016)

Where Hands Touch (2018)

until I watched Amma Asante’s film. The presence of Black Germans was reduced to one line in my Second World War History A-Level textbook: it simply stated that Black German and disabled people were persecuted alongside Jewish people under the Third Reich, thus reducing the history of Black Germans to a mere addendum. Where Hands Touch sheds light on Black Germans and their plight through the multi-faceted story of Leyna, a biracial girl living in Germany in 1944 who is played by the indomitable Amandla Stenberg, and Leyna’s mother and half-brother, Koen. Worried about how noticeable Leyna is in the small town of Rüdesheim am Rhein, Leyna’s mother (played by Abbie Cornish) moves the family to Berlin so that they can blend in more. Her decision is heavily based on Hitler’s directive of having all of the Rhineland Bastards sterilised and making them sign documents forbidding them from the crime of racial mixing. Leyna meets Lutz, the son of a high ranking SS officer in the Nazi regime. A member of the Hitler Youth, he is desperate to see action in the war. The ensuing love story between Leyna and Lutz drew an unprecedented amount of criticism, with many condemning the scenes of a Black woman kissing a man with a swastika on his arm. One of Asante’s storytelling techniques is to use romance to carry her narratives, as seen in Belle and A United Kingdom. Where Hands Touch isn’t able to do this as successfully as her previous two films, and I agree with the critique regarding the territory it lays for the fetishising of Black women. However, the representation of the Black German historical societal context is still one that is missing from both the educational syllabus and the media. As such, I believe that, despite this flaw, the film has an important story to tell. Throughout the film, Leyna is constantly told that she is not German and that she has no place in Germany. Despite this, she holds onto her belief that she is a German girl and that Germany is her home – the only one she’s ever known – and refuses to be forced out by white societal standards. Leyna’s bravery and defiance is a key point of the film, and provides a lens of Black European identity through which we do not often get to see. As the film progresses, Lutz eventually finds that he does not believe in the Nazi regime and tries to figure out a way to keep Leyna and their unborn child alive. However, Asante prevents Lutz from being Leyna’s white saviour by making Leyna find a way to ultimately keep herself alive after she is interned into a labour camp. At the end of the film, Leyna is recovered from the labour camp by a young Black soldier and is reunited with her

mother and brother. The film ends with Leyna finally being free to live and raise her child in Germany without persecution and, in doing so, triumphs over the very ideologies Hitler strived to put in place. While I stand firmly with the critique of the film and believe that we shouldn’t settle for the lowest bar of representation, I still believe that Amma Asante’s work here ascends the stereotypical war and periodical pieces we are used to watching. Through the centring of Black Germans in a period of history from which they are still penned into the margins, she provides a closer look at the colonial and white supremacist history of Germany. She elevates narratives and stories which would otherwise exist as mere sentences in our history textbooks if they appear at all.

‘The presence of Black Germans was reduced to one line in my Second World War History A-Level textbook: it simply stated that Black German and disabled people were persecuted alongside Jewish people under the Third Reich, thus reducing the history of Black Germans to a mere addendum.’ I have high hopes for Amma Asante and her penchant for Black-centred historical pieces and explorations of Black identity. She is a powerful writer and, despite critiquing some of her work, I believe her intent of representation to be true. By bringing to light subject matter that is often overlooked in period and historical films, she tells untold stories and preserves the multihistoric spectrum of Black identities, allowing them to transcend their respective times by centring them with universal themes. With the release of The Billion Dollar Spy, I believe that Asante will finally be seen for the talented and versatile filmmaker she is. The ascent of one of the UK’s most successful Black filmmakers into mainstream consciousness is long overdue but increasingly imminent. I, for one, cannot wait for her work to shepherd in a new generation of Black female filmmakers dedicated to directing overlooked narratives. By Ajebowale Roberts

E v e ry w h e r e THE

t gi h

. s e h Touc

By ebubechi okpalugo

Everywhere the Light Touches

Borders locked off, large gatherings cancelled, but restrictions make you get creative. Before this summer, despite geography trips and the infamous bronze DofE, I didn’t think about the British countryside as a place for me to visit or live. The anxieties of travelling whilst Black, whether that’s the UK, mainland Europe or Asia, are real. My brother (my muse in this piece) studied for 6 years in the Czech Republic, and his safety was called into question more times than I can count. The two weeks of my 2018 summer trip to Malaysia, was tainted by countless photo requests—othering thinly veiled as flattery. I know exploring these places alone is not a viable option for me. In the UK, particularly when we leave cities and venture into what is known as ‘Brexit Britain’ terrain, a similar discomfort lingers, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t expect the worst each time. The insidious nature of racism in Britain is one which will have you over-prepared whilst leaving you to question whether you’ve made up the hostility in your head. However, I don’t want this to be a piece on reliving trauma because this summer (during a pandemic and an upheaval which felt like day after day of waking up to debates about the value of Black life) I still saw people emphasising the importance of Black joy, rest, and enjoyment. To spend time outdoors, to absorb vitamin D, to frolic. I loved that for us, and I loved that many of us turned to holidaying in the UK, even when it doesn’t always feel like a welcome home. I’ve also been emboldened by the groups I’ve seen pop up, claiming outdoor activities as our own. Black Girls Camping Trip provide tailored outdoor retreats for Black women and non-binary people in the UK; Flock Together, a bird-watching support club, combat the underrepresentation of Black and brown people in nature; and Clmbxr; a London-based activity group, dedicate themselves to bringing more diversity into climbing. So, these are just a few photos from our afternoon in The Peak District we live close by—we took a tram, a train, and walked. I had an enjoyable time, and I love how the photos turned out. As it looks like the UK will be oscillating in and out of lockdown for the substantial future, for me the little things on a day to day help. If that’s the same for you, take up your (socially distanced) space outside and breathe in as much air at your disposal. The history of Black people in the UK is painted with restriction, attempted denial of contribution and maximising profit without promising stability. Whilst access to outdoor activity may seem small, as Mufasa told Simba, (albeit about the fictional Pride Lands rather than the British Isles) everywhere the light touches is (y)ours.

TAROT TO-DO LIST By Zoe Thompson

she shuffled the deck and Death flew out looking for attention, alive and yearning. she said i need to stop peering through blindfolds, to take them off and turn the other way, to Transcend, and find sense through rebirth to touch lava and burn. Fate passed through my window and kissed me on the cheek. I laughed as it tickled.

Tosin akinkunmi ‘the sun’

...and the beginning is the end.

III: TRANSCEND IV: A spark catches our finger and makes the world turn Black... Black sun, black trees, black sky. We look at our arms and see only the invisible outlines of ourselves, all of our selves. In our hands, the gem unhidden, as if it had never left. We turn it over curiously as we look around. Here, everything is everything, all the colours instantly absorbed into every possibility. Black absorbs every colour and reflects none, choosing instead to conceal the beauty of their potential. The voices tell us, ‘Black is the secret of a rainbow in a single shade’. Now that you’ve listened and found us, now that you’ve dug us up into a beautiful, beautiful morning, now that we’ve shifted you across and upwards... Where will you go?

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